•NRLF 


ENGLISH  MEN   OF   LETTERS 

WHITMAN 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


ENGLISH   MEN  OF 


WALT  WHITMAN 


BY 

GEORGE  RICE  CARPENTER 


Nrfrr  gorfe 

THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 
1909 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1909, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  March,  1909. 


J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


fs 


tjj 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

BOYHOOD  (1819-1841) 1 

CHAPTER  II 
JOURNALIST  (1841-1850) 18 

CHAPTER   III 
WORKMAN  AND  POET  (1850-1860) 33 

CHAPTER   IV 
COMRADESHIP  (1861-1873) 89 

CHAPTER   V 
OLD  AGE  (1873-1892) .139 


WALT  WHITMAN 

CHAPTER   I 

9  BOYHOOD    (1819-1841) 

LONG  ISLAND  had  been  the  home  of  the  Whitmans 
for  generations.  Fish-shaped,  as  Whitman  loved  to 
picture  it,  it  stretches  away  from  New  York,  running 
a  little  to  the  north  of  east,  for  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  miles,  with  an  average  breadth  of  about 
twelve.  On  the  north  it  has  several  fine  harbours,  in 
the  middle  a  ridge  of  low  hills,  on  the  south  a  scarcely 
broken  stretch  of  narrow,  desolate,  dangerous  beach, 
protecting  the  inner  waters  of  a  chain  of  bays.  The 
western  settlements  in  the  island  were  originally  Dutch  j 
the  eastern  were  made  by  the  English,  —  Independents 
of  the  old  breed,  shut  off  from  Connecticut  by  the  Sound, 
and  from  New  York  by  the  sandy  wilderness,  but 
sturdily  content  in  their  isolation.  Journeying  east 
from  New  York,  even  as  late  as  Whitman's  childhood, 
one  soon  passed  out  of  the  village  of  Brooklyn  and  its 
outlying  farms  into  the  great  Hempstead  plain,  un 
broken  by  tree,  shrub,  or  fence,  a  pasture-ground  for 
sheep  and  cattle,  who  fattened  on  the  coarse  grass  that 
grew  abundantly  in  its  black  but  thin  soil.  Then,  as 
the  mould  became  mixed  with  sand,  came  the  "brushy 
plains"  of  scrub  oak.  Forty  miles  of  this,  and,  as  the 
sand  increased  in  fineness  and  fluidity,  one  entered 
the  "pine  plains,"  a  low,  irregular  forest  that  con- 

B  1 


2  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

/-r  *    "?/i    V"e  v     *    ^  J   fc.-t  e*'"  V\c' 

tinued  to  the  sand  dunes  of  the  east.  The  railroad 
did  not  penetrate  far  into  the  island  until  1841 ;  the 
roads  were  bad,  and  communication  by  sea  was  often 
hazardous.  "  The  necessary  consequence  is,"  says  an 
historian  of  the  island  in  1845,  "  that  locomotion,  at 
least  to  any  distance  from  home,  is  almost  unknown 
on  Long  Island.  The  writer  has  heard  men  sixty 
years  of  age  say  that  they  were  never  twenty  miles 
from  the  spot  on  which  they  were  born ;  and  no  doubt 
there  are  many  now  living  who  never  breathed  the 
atmosphere  of  more  than  two  towns  in  their  lives." 
Huntington,  the  Whitman  township,  lay  towards  the 
middle  of  the  island,  forty  miles  east  of  Brooklyn, 
and  stretched  from  the  beautiful  many-forked  north 
ern  bay,  with  its  excellent  harbours,  to  the  salt  marshes 
and  beaches  of  the  south.  It  contained  more  than  a 
hundred  square  miles  and  was  sparsely  settled.  The 
climate  was  tempered  by  the  sea  air ;  the  soil,  when 
fertilized  by  the  weeds  and  fish  of  the  sea,  repaid  care ; 
the  life  was  peaceful,  honest,  and  hearty;  the  inhabit 
ants  were  farmers  who  were  no  strangers  to  the  sea. 
And  the  isolation  was  that  of  a  far-distant  land. 

Whitman  is  so  deeply  associated  in  our  minds  with 
the  teeming  life  of  Manhattan  that  it  is  difficult  to 
realize  that  he  was  a  country  boy.  He  was  born 
May  31,  1819,  in  the  hamlet  of  WTest  Hills,  in  this 
township  of  Huntington,  Suffolk  County,  Long  Island, 
where  his  ancestors  had  lived  since  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Like  Whittier,  he  sprang  from 
an  old,  permanently  settled  country  stock,  long  thor 
oughly  adapted  to  its  environment,  and  now  ready  to 
bear  its  unique  flower  and  fruit. 

This  environment  was  scarcely  to  be  differentiated 


i.]  BOYHOOD   (1819-1841)  3 

from  that  of  New  England.  Huntington  had  been 
settled  in  1653  by  New  England  colonists,  and  for  a 
century  and  a  half  its  connections  with  the  mainland 
across  the  Sound  —  scarcely  more  than  ten  miles  wide 
at  this  point,  from  land  to  land  —  were  closer  than 
those  with  Brooklyn  and  New  York.  It  had  been 
early  decided  by  Dutch  and  English  commissioners 
that  the  Dutch  should  not  interfere  with  settlements 
to  the  east  of  Oyster  Bay,  which  were  absolutely  Eng 
lish  in  character  and  had  been  admitted  as  members 
of  the  Connecticut  or  the  New  Haven  Colony.  In 
1664,  much  against  their  will,  Huntington  and  its 
sister  settlements  became  part  of  the  possessions  of 
the  Duke  of  York,  to  be  governed  by  the  hated 
"  Duke's  laws,"  which  did  not  provide  for  represen 
tation  in  a  general  assembly.  The  island  became 
Yorkshire,  and  Huntington  was  in  the  "  East  Kiding." 
The  pioneers  submitted  with  ill  grace,  for  as  an  out 
lying  member  of  the  Connecticut  Colony  they  had  been 
almost  absolutely  independent,  and  they  flatly  refused 
to  contribute  to  the  repair  of  the  New  York  fort,  on 
the  ground  that  they  were  deprived  of  the  liberties  of 
Englishmen.  In  1673  the  Dutch  seized  New  York 
again  and  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  Huntington,  which 
refused  to  take  any  oath  that  would  pledge  it  to  bear 
arms  against  Great  Britain,  and  plainly  looked  to 
being  taken,  like  Easthampton,  Southampton,  and 
Southold,  under  the  protection  of  Connecticut.  The 
Dutch  occupation,  however,  was  brief,  and  the  town 
was  forced  back  under  the  abhorred  "Duke's  laws." 
Even  after  representation  was  granted,  in  1683,  its 
sympathies  were  still  with  Connecticut  rather  than 
with  New  York,  and  though  it  was  inclined  to  look 


4  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

with  favour  on  the  anti-aristocratic  rule  of  Leisler,  it 
refused  to  send  delegates  to  the  legislature,  and  did 
not  cease  to  desire  a  fresh  union  with  Connecticut 
until  the  fall  of  the  Stuarts  and  the  new  colonial 
legislation  made  such  a  political  conjunction  forever 
out  of  the  question. 

Like  the  majority  of  the  early  settlers  in  eastern 
Long  Island,  the  Whitmans  were  of  English  stock 
and  Independents  in  faith.  An  apparently  baseless 
tradition  has  connected  them  with  Zechariah  Whit 
man,  a  ruling  elder  and  ordained  teacher  who  emi 
grated  from  England  in  1635  and  lived  in  New  Haven 
and  Milf ord ;  but  this  Zechariah  left  no  issue.  Joseph, 
who  was  admitted  freeman  of  Connecticut  from  Hunt- 
ington  in  1664,  is  probably  the  same  Joseph  who  is 
referred  to  in  the  minutes  of  the  meeting  of  the  New 
Haven  general  court  in  1655  as  living  in  Stratford, 
Connecticut.  He  was  apparently  a  man  of  solid  ability 
and  character,  and  the  carefully  preserved  records  of 
Huntington  make  frequent  mention  of  him.  In  1679 
Andros  arbitrarily  ordered  him  to  present  himself,  as 
late  constable  of  the  town,  in  New  York,  as  if  to 
answer  charges  for  undue  independence  of  his  Ex 
cellency's  trading  regulations.  He  was  constable, 
grand  juryman,  surveyor,  townsman,  leather-sealer. 
He  owned  several  farms ;  bought,  sold,  and  exchanged 
land  with  an  activity  that  smacks  of  the  Yankee  spec 
ulator;  and  he  was  still  living  in  1698.  His  sons 
appear  to  have  been  Joseph,  John,  Nathaniel,  and 
Samuel,  of  whom  we  know  little  except  that  against 
Joseph  complaint  was  brought  in  1690  by  Henry 
Whitney  for  "  stealing  his  daughter's  affections  con 
trary  to  her  mother's  mind  and  using  unlawful  means 


i.]  BOYHOOD   (1819-1841)  5 

to  obtain  his  daughter's  love."  The  testimony  cited 
seems  to  show  that  Joseph  was  a  "  good  lad,"  though 
scarcely  yet  settled  in  life.  Here  tradition  fails ;  but 
from  among  the  increasing  number  of  the  Whitmans 
whom  the  records  show,  one  certainly  moved  from  the 
old  "  town  spot "  to  a  farm  in  the  hills  (West  Hills), 
a  little  to  the  south,  henceforth  to  be  the  home  of  that 
branch  of  the  family,  and  his  son  Nehemiah  was  the 
father  of  Jesse,  whom  we  know  to  have  been  Walt 
Whitman's  grandfather. 

Whatever  may  be  the  truth  as  to  the  exact  geneal 
ogy,  the  Whitmans  were  old  Huntington  settlers,  well 
known  in  their  district,  and  it  is  almost  inconceivable 
that  they  should  have  married  otherwise  than  among 
their  neighbours,  who  were  virtually  all  of  similar 
blood.  The  lady  irregularly  wooed  by  the  second 
Joseph  was  either  a  Whitney  or  a  Ketchum,  both 
familiar  names  in  the  early  records,  and  Jesse  married 
a  Brush,  a  name  which,  since  the  foundation  of  the 
settlement,  had  been  written  in  close  connection  with 
that  of  his  ancestors. 

And  there  these  pioneers  lived  out  their  lives  with 
their  fellows,  in  a  region  peculiarly  fitted  to  breed 
quiet  and  stalwart  independence.  At  first  they  dwelt 
on  the  old  "town  spot,"  with  its  forts  and  watch- 
houses  and  trainbands,  raising  what  crops  they  could, 
clearing  the  ground,  building  houses  and  barns,  plant 
ing  orchards,  making  timber  and  clapboards.  They 
had  matchlock  guns,  wooden  ploughshares  tipped  with 
iron,  and  ox  carts.  The  women  ground  the  corn.  Be 
fore  the  older  generation  died  the  village  was  in  order. 
There  were  saw-mills  and  grist-mills,  tanneries,  brick 
yards,  and  docks,  a  church  and  a  school  j  the  whale- 


6  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

boats  plied  to  and  fro  on  the  Sound,  and  smart  little 
vessels  bore  barrel  staves  and  pork  to  the  West  Indies, 
returning  with  sugar,  molasses,  and  rum.  Cattle  had 
increased,  each  bearing  the  crop  of  its  owner,  duly 
registered  in  the  town  records.  The  soil  proved  fairly 
fertile,  the  Indians  gave  little  trouble,  the  salt  marshes 
yielded  hay  in  abundance,  and  the  colonists  spread 
themselves  slowly  out  over  their  district,  apportion 
ing  the  lands  in  their  semi-socialistic  fashion.  Of 
the  neighbouring  counties  they  knew  little.  New 
York  was  forty  miles  away,  over  bad  roads,  and  its 
authority  was  light.  They  lived  quietly  in  peace  and 
independence  —  the  typical  life  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
community.  Even  religion  was  not  a  disturbing  fac 
tor,  as  the  records  show,  for  these  were  no  zealots  but 
plain-living  country  farmers  and  sea-traders. 

The  Revolution  told  heavily  on  them.  The  battle 
of  Long  Island  cut  them  off  from  aid,  British  squad 
ron  after  squadron  anchored  in  the  great  harbour,  and 
troops  were  quartered  on  them, — Erskine's,  Tarleton's, 
and  Tryon's  men  and  Hessians,  insolent  and  brutal. 
Huntington  was  easy  of  access  by  sea,  and  the  troops 
there  could  collect  provisions  for  the  New  York  garri 
son  and  at  the  same  time  keep  an  eye  on  the  Connecti 
cut  rebels.  The  local  militia,  in  which  Jesse  Whitman 
served,  were  forced  to  work  on  fortifications  and  (under 
that  imperious  renegade  Yankee,  Benjamin  Thompson, 
later  Count  Eumford)  to  share  in  demolishing  their 
church  and  in  building,  in  the  midst  of  the  burying 
place  on  the  hill,  the  hated  Fort  "  Golgotha,"  using  in 
the  construction  of  the  ovens  the  tombstones  of  their 
fathers.  The  young  men  waylaid  little  troops  of 
British  soldiers,  and  spies  came  and  went  from  Con- 


i.]  BOYHOOD   (1819-1841)  7 

necticut,  among  them  Nathan  Hale,  who  was  captured 
on  the  harbour  shore.  The  township  was  desolated  by 
a  bitter  guerilla  warfare,  made  more  bitter  still, 
shame  to  say,  by  bands  of  marauders  who  robbed  both 
parties. 

The  Eevolution  over,  the  quiet  and  prosperous  life 
began  again,  scarcely  broken  by  the  flurry  of  excite 
ment  caused  by  the  War  of  1812.  The  region  was  still 
remote.  Eastward  and  westward  the  roads  were  bad, 
and  Huntington  brooded  in  the  isolation  of  the  mid- 
island.  It  was  New  England  in  its  independence  and 
self-reliance,  more  free  even  than  Connecticut  from 
the  presence  of  the  aristocratic  ideal  in  any  shape ; 
but  unlike  New  England  in  the  absence  of  theoretic 
influences,  of  morbid  religious  and  emotional  analysis, 
of  intense  ambition  for  learning  or  godliness  or  wealth, 
—  an  almost  ideal  community,  it  would  seem,  where 
life  was  sane  and  healthy,  and  naught  disturbed  the 
growth  of  all  the  peaceful  and  democratic  virtues. 

The  Whitmans,  the  biographers  tell  us,  were  a  sturdy 
race;  "solid,  tall,  strong-framed,  long-lived,  moderate 
of  speech,  friendly,  fond  of  their  land  and  of  horses 
and  cattle,  sluggish  in  their  passions  but  fearful  when 
once  started,"  Dr.  Bucke  records.  Their  wives  were 
likely  to  be  women  of  strong  character,  also,  if  we 
judge  from  Mr.  Burroughs'  statement  that  Nehemiah's 
wife,  the  great-grandmother,  "was  a  large,  swarthy 
woman,  who  smoked  tobacco,  rode  on  horseback 
like  a  man,  managed  the  most  vicious  horse,  and 
becoming  a  widow  later  in  life,  went  forth  every  day 
over  her  farm-lands,  frequently  in  the  saddle,  direct 
ing  the  labor  of  her  slaves."  The  grandfather,  Jesse, 
however,  married  a  woman  of  gentler  type,  Hannah 


8  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Brush,  a  schoolmistress.  Whitman's  mother  was 
Louisa,  daughter  of  Major  Cornelius  Van  Velsor, 
a  Dutch  farmer  at  Cold  Spring  Harbour,  three  or 
four  miles  from  West  Hills,  and  of  Amy  (Naomi) 
Williams,  his  wife,  daughter  of  Captain  Williams,  a 
trader  to  the  West  Indies.  The  Willianises  were  sea 
faring  folk  and  of  Quaker  sympathies,  and  Whitman 
describes  his  grandmother  as  belonging  to  the  Society 
of  Friends,  though  it  would  seem  that  she  was  not 
technically  a  member  of  it.  "  The  Van  Velsors,"  says 
Dr.  Bucke,  were  "  fond  of  horses,  the  raising  of  which 
from  blooded  stock  was  a  part  of  their  occupation, 
and  Louisa  when  young  was  herself  a  daring  and 
spirited  rider.  As  a  woman  and  mother  she  was  of 
marked  spiritual  and  intuitive  nature,  remarkably 
healthy  and  strong,  had  a  kind,  generous  heart,  good 
sense,  and  a  cheerful  and  even  temper." 

The  father,  Walter  Whitman,  Senior,  passed  his 
childhood  on  the  farm  at  West  Hills,  and  was  as  a  lad 
apprenticed  as  a  carpenter  in  New  York,  —  the  first  of 
his  line,  apparently,  to  pass  into  the  outer  world. 
"  His  business,"  says  Dr.  Bucke,  "  for  many  years  ex 
tended  into  various  parts  of  Long  Island.  He  was  a 
large,  quiet,  serious  man,  very  kind  to  children  and 
animals,  and  a  good  citizen,  neighbour,  and  parent. 
Not  a  few  of  his  barn  and  house  frames,  with  their 
seasoned  timber  and  careful  braces  and  joists,  are 
still  standing  (1883)  in  Suffolk  and  Queen's  counties 
and  in  Brooklyn,  strong  and  plumb  as  ever." 

The  boy  spent  his  early  years  on  the  farm.  The 
family  moved  to  Brooklyn  when  he  was  four,  but  for 
a  long  time  afterwards  he  apparently  passed  a  good 
part  of  each  year  with  his  grandmothers,  and  it  was 


i.]  BOYHOOD    (1819-1841)  9 

not  until  he  was  a  man  grown  that  he  stepped  defi 
nitely  out  of  the  old  Long  Island  country  life.  His 
childhood's  impressions  he  has  recorded  in  TJiere  was 
a  Child  went  Forth,  in  Out  of  the  Cradle  endlessly 
Rocking,  and  in  /Specimen  Days.  He  was  a  quiet, 
thoughtful,  but  active  youth,  showing  genius  in  no 
point,  but,  as  we  can  see  now,  capable  of  very  deep 
impressions,  of  which  he  did  not  until  middle  life 
attempt  analysis.  In  the  first-mentioned  poem  he 
touches  only  on  the  sights  and  sounds  that  thus  became 
part  of  him :  — 

*'  The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 

And  grass  and  white  and  red  morning-glories,  and  white  and 
red  clover,  and  the  song  of  the  phoebe-bird, 

And  the  Third-month  lambs,  and  the  sow's  pink-faint  litter, 
and  the  mare's  foal  and  the  cow's  calf, 

And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barn-yard,  or  by  the  mire  of  the 
pond-side, 

And  the  fish  suspending  themselves  so  curiously  below  there, 
and  the  beautiful  curious  liquid, 

And  the  water-plants  with  their  graceful  flat  heads,  all  be 
came  part  of  him. ' ' 

In  the  second  he  sings  a  reminiscence :  — 


"  For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding, 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with  the 

shadows, 
Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the  sounds  and 

sights  after  their  sorts, 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen' d  long  and  long  " 

to  the  song  of  a  bird,  vainly  and  lovingly  calling  its 
dead  mate,  and  to  the  melodious  hissing  of  the  sea. 


10  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

It  was  at  that  hour,  it  seemed  to  him  in  later  years, 
that  the  poet  was  born  in  him,  and  he  was  never  to 
forget  those  two  voices,  the  desolate  bird  that  sang  of 
love  and  the  sea  that  whispered  of  death. 

In  his  prose  reminiscences  he  entered  more  fully 
into  detail,  recalling  the  "  wooded,  hilly,  healthy  sur 
roundings,"  the  broad  and  beautiful  farm  lands,  the 
famous  apple  orchard,  the  "  stately  grove  of  tall,  vigor 
ous  black  walnuts,  beautiful,  Apollo-like,'7  and  the  old 
Van  Velsor  homestead,  —  "  the  vast  kitchen  and  ample 
fireplace  and  the  sitting-room  adjoining,  the  plain  fur 
niture,  the  meals,  the  house  full  of  merry  people,  my 
grandmother  Amy's  sweet  old  face  in  its  Quaker  cap, 
my  grandfather  'the  Major,'  jovial,  red,  stout,  with 
sonorous  voice  and  characteristic  physiognomy."  He 
remembered  vividly  also  his  associations  with  the 
picturesque  inlets  of  the  North  Shore  and  the  great 
bays  and  beaches  of  the  South  Shore,  and  its  long  list 
of  tragic  wrecks,  with  the  traditions  of  which  he  was 
familiar  as  a  boy  and  of  one  or  two  of  which  he  was 
almost  an  observer.  As  a  lad  he  often  went  to  gather 
sea-gulls'  eggs  in  summer,  and  in  winter  to  fish  on  the 
frozen  waters  of  the  shallow  bays,  "with  hand-sled, 
axe  and  eel-spear,  after  messes  of  eels.  We  would  cut 
holes  in  the  ice,  sometimes  striking  quite  an  eel- 
bonanza,  and  filling  our  baskets  with  great,  fat,  sweet, 
white-meated  fellows.  The  scenes,  the  ice,  drawing 
the  hand-sled,  cutting  holes,  spearing  the  eels,  etc., 
were  of  course  just  such  fun  as  is  dearest  to  boyhood." 
He  knew,  too,  the  "blue-fishers  and  sea-bass  takers" 
of  the  eastern  end  of  the  island ;  on  Montauk  penin 
sula,  the  "  strange,  unkempt,  half-barbarous  herds 
men  "  and  the  few  remaining  Indians  and  half-breeds ; 


!.]  BOYHOOD   (1819-1841)  11 

in  the  middle  of  the  island,  the  spreading,  prairie- 
like  Hempstead  plains,  with  their  thousands  of  cattle, 
and  could  recall  in  fancy  "  the  interminable  cow  pro 
cessions,"  as  they  found  their  way  home  at  nightfall, 
"and  hear  the  music  of  the  tin  and  copper  bells 
clanking  far  and  near,  and  breathe  the  cool  of  the 
sweet  and  slightly  aromatic  evening  air,  and  note  the 
sunset." 

"  Through  the  same  region  of  the  island,"  he  continues, 
"but  further  east,  extended  wide  central  tracts  of  pine  and 
scrub-oak,  (charcoal  was  largely  made  here,)  monotonous  and 
sterile.  But  many  a  good  day  or  half-day  did  I  have,  wander 
ing  through  those  solitary  cross-roads,  inhaling  the  peculiar 
and  wild  aroma.  Here,  and  all  along  the  island  and  its  shores, 
I  spent  [at]  intervals  many  years,  all  seasons,  sometimes  riding, 
sometimes  boating,  but  generally  afoot,  (I  was  always  then  a 
good  walker,)  absorbing  fields,  shores,  marine  incidents,  char 
acters,  the  bay -men,  farmers,  pilots  —  always  had  a  plentiful 
acquaintance  with  the  latter,  and  with  fishermen  —  went  every 
summer  on  sailing  trips  —  always  liked  the  bare  sea-beach, 
south  side,  and  have  some  of  my  happiest  hours  on  it  to  this 
day.  As  I  write,  the  whole  experience  comes  back  to  me  after 
the  lapse  of  forty  and  more  years — the  soothing  rustle  of  the 
waves,  and  the  saline  smell  —  boyhood's  times,  the  clam-dig 
ging,  barefoot,  and  with  trousers  roll'd  up  —  hauling  down  the 
creek — the  perfume  of  the  sedge-meadows — the  hay-boat,  and 
the  chowder  and  fishing  excursions." 

The  Brooklyn  in  which  Whitman  found  himself  as 
a  boy  was  not  the  great  city  of  to-day,  though  it  was 
at  the  very  beginning  of  its  rapid  development.  The 
population  of  the  whole  township  in  1824  was  only 
about  nine  thousand,  and  that  of  the  village  itself 
scarcely  over  seven  thousand.  The  houses  were 
mainly  clustered  around  the  Old  (Fulton)  Ferry, 
below  the  abrupt  rise  which  is  now  the  Heights  and 


12  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

was  then  Clover  Hill.  The  older  Dutch  houses  were 
quaintly  built  of  stone  or  with  small  imported  Hol 
land  bricks,  and  among  them  the  pert-looking  Yankee 
frame  edifices  stood  out  as  rude  intruders.  "Yet  one 
and  all,'7  says  Mr.  Stiles,  the  historian  of  the  city, 
"  wore  an  unpretentious  and  neighborly  look,  under 
the  drooping  shadows  of  the  noble  elms  with  which 
the  city  abounded."  The  streets  were  unpaved,  un- 
lighted,  without  sidewalks,  and  those  who  went  abroad 
at  night  must  pick  their  way  by  the  light  of  their  own 
lanterns  through  streets  often  well-nigh  impassable 
from  mud  and  mire.  There  were  wharves  and  store 
houses,  slaughtering-houses,  distilleries,  ropewalks, 
and  various  manufactories.  The  mail  went  once  a 
day  to  New  York. 

The  antiquarians  have  patiently  restored  the  old 
village,  »street  by  street,  house  by  house,  family  by 
family,  and  he  who  pores  over  their  works  may  imag 
ine  how  it  struck  the  eyes  of  the  country  lad.  It  was 
a  step  in  his  preparation  for  the  larger  world,  a  friendly 
little  spot  where  every  one  knew  everybody  and  where 
he  quietly  grew  to  greater  knowledge  of  mankind.  It 
was  a  quaint  place,  too,  full  of  strange  names  and 
strange  characters,  all  good  to  teach  a  lad  the  many- 
sidedness  of  life.  He  could  see  his  townsfolk  in  1829, 
as  Furman  records  in  his  manuscript  notes,  still  dig 
ging  for  Captain  Kidd's  money;  and  he  knew,  no  doubt, 
the  whole  picturesque  mixture  of  Dutch  and  Hugue 
not  and  English  life,  even  to  Het  Dorp,  the  town  plot 
of  Bushwick,  reluctantly  giving  up  its  Dutch  charac 
ter,  and  G-reenpoint,  unyielding  in  its  old  Dutch  ways  ; 
though  his  earliest  memories  were  of  the  ferries,  — 
how  he  was  petted  by  the  gatekeepers  and  deck  hands, 


i.]  BOYHOOD    (1819-1841)  13 

and  "the  horses  that  seem'd  to  me  so  queer  as  they 
trudg'd  around  the  central  houses  of  the  boats,  mak 
ing  the  water-power."  And  now  and  then  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  greater  outer  world,  as  when,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  laying  of  a  corner-stone,  he  found  him 
self,  a  child  of  five,  close  to  Lafayette,  who  gave  him 
a  kiss  and  set  him  down  in  a  safer  place  in  the  throng. 
In  Brooklyn,  then  just  beginning  to  stir  with  new 
life,  the  father  plied  his  trade,  and  built  house  after 
house  for  himself,  each  of  which  was  successively 
mortgaged  and  eventually  lost.  The  children  were 
Jesse,  born  in  1818 ;  Walter,1  fifteen  months  younger ; 
Mary  Elizabeth,  1821 ;  Louisa,  1823 ;  an  unnamed  in 
fant,  who  lived  only  a  few  months,  1825;  Andrew 
Jackson,  1827;  George  Washington,  1829;  Thomas 
Jefferson,  1833;  and  Edward,  crippled  in  body  and 
weak  of  mind,  1835.  With  his  brothers  and  sisters 
Walt,  it  should  be  said  in  passing,  was  throughout  his 
life  on  terms  of  intimacy  and  affection.  Of  his  rela 
tions  with  his  father  we  hear  little,  and  it  may  be  sur 
mised  that  from  the  outset  the  hard-working,  serious, 
practical  man  found  it  difficult  to  understand  a  lad 
whose  wayward,  emotional  temperament  grew  with 
his  years,  and  who  lacked  the  desire  to  turn  his 
pennies  to  the  best  account.  For  sympathy  and  un 
derstanding  the  child  must  have  instinctively  turned 
then,  as  he  did  his  whole  life  long,  to  his  mother,  a 
remarkable  woman,  whose  calm  good  sense,  never 

1  "At  home,  through  infancy  and  boyhood,  he  was  always 
called  «  Walt,'  to  distinguish  him  from  his  father  '  Walter,'  and 
the  short  name  has  always  been  used  for  him  by  his  relatives 
and  friends"  (Dr.  Bucke).  In  his  manhood  he  deliberately 
adopted  the  shorter  name. 


14  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

failing  equanimity,  and  insight  into  the  essentials  of 
life  and  character  he  never  ceased  to  praise. 

The  family  was  large  and  its  needs  were  imperative, 
and  the  lad  was  early  set  to  work.  He  had  attended 
the  public  schools  for  several  years,  and  in  1831,  as 
a  lad  of  twelve,  he  was  engaged  in  a  lawyer's  office, 
where  he  had  "  a  nice  desk  and  window-nook  "  to  him 
self.  One  of  his  employers  helped  him  with  his  hand 
writing  and  composition,  and  "(the  signal  event  of 
my  life  up  to  that  time)  subscribed  for  me  to  a  big  cir 
culating  library.  For  a  time  I  now  revell'd  in  romance- 
reading  of  all  kinds;  first,  the  Arabian  Nights,  all 
the  volumes,  an  amazing  treat.  Then,  with  sorties 
in  very  many  other  directions,  took  in  Walter  Scott's 
novels,  one  after  another,  and  his  poetry."  He  left 
this  friendly  haven  for  a  similar  position  in  a  doctor's 
office ;  and  then,  in  1833,  when  his  family  moved  back 
to  the  country  again,  he  began  life  in  earnest  as  a 
printer's  apprentice  in  the  office  of  the  Long  Island 
Patriot,  a  weekly  paper  of  very  limited  circulation, 
printed  by  hand  on  an  old-fashioned  wooden  press. 
Whitman  recalled  pleasantly  his  life  there:  "An 
old  printer  in  the  house,  William  Hartshorne,  a  revo 
lutionary  character,  who  had  seen  Washington,  was  a 
special  friend  of  mine,  and  I  had  many  a  talk  with 
him  about  long-past  times.  The  apprentices,  includ 
ing  myself,  boarded  with  his  granddaughter.  I  used 
occasionally  to  go  out  riding  with  the  boss,  who  was 
very  kind  to  us."  Later,  in  1834  or  1835,  he  was  a 
compositor  on  the  Long  Island  Star,  another  weekly 
or  semi- weekly  paper,  the  editor  of  which  afterward 
characterized  him  facetiously  as  a  lazy  lad  —  too  lazy 
to  shake  even  with  an  ague.  Like  many  a  printer,  he 


i.]  BOYHOOD    (1819-1841)  15 

had  a  taste  for  literary  composition.  Several  "  senti 
mental  bits  "  had  appeared  in  the  Patriot,  and  "  a  piece 
or  two  in  George  P.  Morris's  then  celebrated  and  fash 
ionable  Mirror,  of  New  York  City.  I  remember  with 
what  half-suppressed  excitement  I  used  to  watch  for 
the  big,  fat,  red-faced,  slow-moving,  very  old  English 
carrier  who  distributed  the  Mirror  in  Brooklyn ;  and 
when  I  got  one,  opening  and  cutting  the  leaves  with 
trembling  fingers.  How  it  made  my  heart  double-beat 
to  see  my  piece  on  the  pretty  paper  in  nice  type." 

Whitman's  love  for  reading,  his  taste  for  writing, 
his  sound  training  as  a  compositor,  and  his  native 
genius  for  friendship,  combined  to  give  him  a  bent  for 
teaching,  and  in  1836  and  1837,  after  working,  accord 
ing  to  his  own  account,  in  printing-offices  in  New 
York,  he  began  this  new  profession  as  a  country  peda 
gogue  at  Babylon,  on  the  south  shore  of  the  island. 
He  is  remembered  as  a  big,  earnest,  quiet  fellow, 
neatly  dressed,  black-haired  and  fresh-faced,  and  a 
moderately  good  teacher,  though  kindly  and  uncon 
ventional  in  his  methods  of  discipline  as  contrasted 
with  the  somewhat  brutal  methods  of  the  day.  His 
pupils  were  partly  girls,  but  he  showed  no  senti 
mental  tendencies,  and  his  friendships  were  mostly 
with  his  elders. 

Teaching  led  naturally  to  journalism,  and  in  1838 
we  find  him  back  in  his  own  "  beautiful  town  of  Hunt- 
ington,"  where  he  had  been  encouraged  to  start  a  paper 
which  he  called  the  Long  Islander.  "  I  bought  a  press 
and  types,"  he  relates,  "hired  some  little  help,  but 
did  most  of  the  work  myself,  including  the  press- 
work.  Everything  seem'd  turning  out  well ;  (only 
my  own  restlessness  prevented  my  gradually  estab- 


16  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

lishing  a  permanent  property  there.)  I  bought  a  good 
horse,  and  every  week  went  all  round  the  country 
serving  my  papers,  devoting  one  day  and  night  to  it. 
I  never  had  happier  jaunts  —  going  over  to  south  side, 
to  Babylon,  down  the  south  road,  across  to  Smithtown 
and  Comae,  and  back  home.  The  experience  of  those 
jaunts,  the  dear  old-fashion'd  farmers  and  their  wives, 
the  stops  by  the  hay -fields,  the  hospitality,  nice  din 
ners,  occasional  evenings,  the  girls,  the  rides  through 
the  brush,  and  the  smell  from  the  dale  of  the  south 
woods,  come  up  in  my  memory  to  this  day." 

From  journalism  he  shifted  restlessly  back  to 
teaching  again,  in  1839-1841,  at  Babylon,  in  Jamaica 
Academy,  and  elsewhere.  And  now  we  hear  of  him 
as  a  debater  in  several  local  societies,  and  as  a  public 
speaker  on  political  questions.  New  ideas  were  ob 
truding  themselves  into  his  slow-growing  mind,  and 
he  was  from  the  outset  more  or  less  of  a  radical.  He 
was  an  abolitionist,  a  teetotaler,  and  opposed  to  capi 
tal  punishment  —  three  doctrines  which  he  held  in 
common  with  Whittier,  the  Massachusetts  country 
boy  and  young  journalist  and  politician,  whose  early 
career  had  many  points  of  similarity  with  his.  In 
the  campaign  of  1840  he  spoke  often  for  Van  Buren, 
the  Democratic  nominee,  and  it  was  plain  that  the 
impulse  to  self-expression,  whether  by  teaching,  by 
writing,  or  by  speaking,  was  rooting  itself  deeply  in 
his  heart. 

Few  facts  have  been  published  that  throw  any  special 
light  upon  his  state  of  mind  in  this  period.  His  mother 
relates  that  he  was  a  very  good  but  a  very  strange 
boy.  He  once,  in  later  life,  spoke  of  his  boyhood  as 
restless  and  unhappy.  We  may  perhaps  surmise  that, 


i.]  BOYHOOD    (1819-1841)  17 

in  spite  of  his  robust  appearance  and  his  constitu 
tional  indolence,  he  was  nervously  highly  impression 
able.  He  speaks  himself  of  the  Whitman  stubbornness 
of  mind,  and  various  hints  would  indicate  that  he  was 
disposed  to  find  his  own  way,  and  to  persist  in  it,  and 
that  the  many  and  various  impulses  of  youth,  imper 
fectly  coordinated,  gave  him  a  vague  unrest  until 
he  had  worked  out,  in  his  own  slow-going  fashion, 
their  destined  combination. 

At  all  events,  it  was  a  good  start  in  life,  and  one 
typical  of  the  Middle  States,  where  the  great  forma 
tive  and  stimulating  influences  of  education  and  re 
ligion  were  weaker  than  in  New  England.  His 
technical  learning  had  been  slight,  but  he  had  been 
made  free  of  the  world  of  books  and  of  men ;  and  his 
fate  lay  in  his  own  hands.  For  a  college  education 
he  had  apparently  no  ambition.  Nor  was  religion  a 
pressing  matter  with  him.  His  father  was  fond  of 
hearing  Elias  Hicks  preach,  and  as  a  boy  Whitman 
was  deeply  moved  by  one  of  the  last  sermons  of  the 
old  prophet  of  the  inner  light ;  but  there  was  nothing 
to  urge  the  lad  to  a  keen  feeling  of  the  need  of  salvation 
or  to  a  desire  for  a  spiritual  life.  Promptings  toward 
self-aggrandizement  or  self-sacrifice  were  alike  absent. 
He  was  a  healthy,  hearty,  well-balanced  youth,  temper 
ate,  free  from  vicious  habits,  fond  of  out-door  life,  with 
such  education  in  books  as  all  may  have,  and  such  educa 
tion  in  life  as  everybody  gets  who  learns  a  trade  and 
who  knows  the  country  and  the  city.  Such  a  youth, 
slow-evolving,  unawakened,  easy-going,  was  the  normal 
American  boy,  whom  ambition,  personal  charm,  or 
force  of  character  might  later  lead  to  great  distinction 
or  who  might  live  and  die  a  quiet  and  ordinary  citizen. 


CHAPTER  II 

JOURNALIST    (1841-1850) 

FOR  the  following  decade  the  biographer  of  Whit 
man  is  almost  without  significant  data.  We  may 
trace  roughly  the  outward  course  of  Whitman's  life, 
but  we  lack  the  knowledge  of  his  inner  life  that 
would  alone  make  these  facts  of  importance.  No 
definite  act  or  recorded  syllable  of  his  or  of  others  serves 
to  reveal  any  of  the  slow  stages  by  which  he  must 
have  been  steadily  growing  towards  his  greater  self. 
In  the  absence  of  information  that  is  vitally  signifi 
cant,  we  can  only  state  the  few  facts  of  which  record 
is  preserved,  describe  briefly  his  somewhat  colourless 
writing  during  this  period,  and  add  whatever  conjec 
tures  we  can  reasonably  make  as  to  the  trend  of  his 
mind  and  his  art. 

In  1841  Whitman  was  a  compositor  in  the  office  of 
the  New  World,  and  a  little  later  he  was  editor  suc 
cessively  for  a  few  months  of  the  Aurora  and  the 
Tattler,  newspapers  of  which  we  know  nothing  more 
than  the  names,  and  perhaps  of  one  or  two  other  incon 
spicuous  or  short-lived  journals.  In  1842  he  wrote  a 
short  novel,  Franklin  Evans,  and  between  1841  and 
1848  he  contributed  not  only  to  the  columns  of  various 
newspapers,  but  to  the  pages  of  the  Democratic  Review, 
the  Broadway  Journal,  the  American  Review,  and  a 
number  of  other  periodicals. 

18 


CHAP.  IL]  JOURNALIST    (1841-1850)  19 

The  novitiate  of  miscellaneous  writing  past,  we  find 
Whitman  in  1846,  in  a  more  responsible  position,  as 
editor  of  the  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle,  and  living  with 
his  father  and  mother  in  Brooklyn.  His  opinions 
with  regard  to  slavery  and  free  soil,  however,  gave 
offence  to  some  influential  readers  and  to  the  owners, 
and  with  characteristic  indifference  he  relinquished 
the  post  in  1847  or  early  in  1848.  Just  at  that  time 
he  met  one  evening,  in  the  lobby  of  the  old  Broadway 
Theatre,  a  Southern  gentleman  who  was  starting  a 
daily  paper  in  New  Orleans,  and,  though  that  was 
their  first  acquaintance,  it  was  formally  agreed  after 
fifteen  minutes'  talk  that  Whitman  should  be  one  of 
his  staff,  and  two  hundred  dollars  was  paid  to  bind 
the  contract  and  to  cover  Whitman's  travelling  ex 
penses.  A  few  days  later  he  was  on  his  leisurely 
way  southward,  through  Pennsylvania  and  Virginia, 
across  the  Alleghanies,  and  by  steamer  from  Wheel 
ing  down  the  Ohio  and  the  Mississippi.  He  was 
accompanied  by  his  brother  "  Jeff,"  a  boy  of  fifteen, 
who  was  to  work  in  the  printing-office. 

The  first  issue  of  the  Crescent,  a  four-paged  paper 
of  a  type  familiar  at  that  day,  appeared  March  6, 
1848,  and  contained  Whitman's  Sailing  the  Mississippi 
at  Midnight.  His  duties  were  apparently  those 
of  a  general  factotum :  he  wrote  editorials,  news  items, 
or,  more  frequently,  descriptive  articles  on  the  hotels, 
bar-rooms,  and  levee  front,  and  the  people  whom  he 
found  there.  In  his  old  age,  writing  for  the  fiftieth- 
year  edition  of  the  New  Orleans  Picayune,  he  recalled 
with  pleasure  the  varied  and  curious  spectacle  of  the 
old  French  market;  the  admirable  coffee,  the  cool 
"cobblers,"  the  exquisite  wines  and  perfect  brandy, 


20  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

the  hours  "on  the  crowded  and  bustling  levees,"  and 
his  "acquaintances  among  captains,  boatmen,  and 
other  characters." 

But  though  his  situation  was  a  pleasant  one,  his 
brother  was  ill  and  homesick,  and  it  seemed  time 
to  move  on.  They  therefore  took  passage  on  the 
Pride  of  the  West,  May  26,  for  St.  Louis ;  they  pro 
ceeded  thence  by  the  Prairie  Bird  to  La  Salle,  by 
canal  to  Chicago,  by  steamer  through  the  Lakes 
to  Buffalo,  and  by  way  of  Niagara  and  Albany  to 
New  York.  Thereafter  we  hear  nothing  of  him  until 
1850,  when  he  is  referred  to  by  a  brother  journalist  as 
having  "  lately  established  the  Daily  Freeman  in 
Brooklyn,  to  promulgate  his  favourite  Free  Soil  and 
other  reformatory  doctrines."  Quite  probably  he 
had  rejoined  his  family  in  Brooklyn  on  his  return 
from  the  South. 

No  portrait  of  Whitman  at  this  period  is  extant,  and 
of  his  appearance  we  can  guess  only  from  the  descrip 
tion  of  an  associate  of  his  on  the  Aurora,  who  remem 
bered  him  many  years  later  as  "tall  and  graceful  in 
appearance,  neat  in  attire,"  and  as  "having  a  very 
pleasing  and  impressive  eye  and  a  cheerful,  happy- 
looking  countenance.  He  usually  wore  a  frock  coat 
and  a  high  hat,  carried  a  small  cane,  and  the  lapel  of 
his  coat  was  almost  invariably  ornamented  with  a 
boutonniere."  In  his  habits  of  work  he  showed  the 
same  calm  detachment  that  had  characterized  him  as 
a  youth.  Beaching  his  office  between  eleven  and 
twelve  o'clock,  he  looked  over  the  local  papers  and 
the  exchanges.  It  was  then  his  habit  "  to  stroll  down 
Broadway  to  the  Battery,  spending  an  hour  or  two 
amid  the  trees  and  enjoying  the  water  view,  returning 


ii.]  JOURNALIST   (1841-1850)  21 

to  the  office  at  about  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon."  Small  wonder  that  the  owner  of  the  Aurora 
thought  him  "the  laziest  fellow  who  ever  undertook 
to  edit  a  city  paper."  On  the  Brooklyn  Eagle  his  pro 
fessional  habits,  so  the  tradition  runs,  were  much  the 
same.  His  house  was  a  mile  and  a  half  away.  "  Not 
only  did  he  walk,  or  saunter,  to  and  fro  from  the  office, 
but  almost  daily  he  left  his  desk  and  took  a  swim  and 
a  stroll,  leaving  the  nations  to  get  on  as  they  might 
without  his  comment  and  advice,  and  often  taking 
one  of  the  printers  from  his  case  for  company.'7  Such 
a  leisurely  life,  in  a  city  where  most  men  toil  so 
fiercely  for  fame  or  gain,  is  not  to  be  hastily  dispar 
aged.  If  he  limited  his  chances  of  professional 
success,  he  at  least  gained,  by  thus  giving  way  to  his 
temperament,  a  more  robust  health,  a  broader  outlook 
on  the  world,  a  more  hearty  contentment  in  it,  and  a 
more  complete  freedom  from  the  ruts  of  convention 
alism  that  incessant  and  narrow  endeavour  beats  so 
quickly  into  the  brain.  And  he  was  reserving  his 
greater  strength  for  the  heavier  tasks  that  his  genius 
was  soon  to  lay  upon  him. 

Two  further  characteristics  of  Whitman's,  oddly  dis 
similar,  were  also  becoming  more  clearly  marked,  — • 
a  fondness  for  solitude  and  a  craving  for  companion 
ship.  In  solitude  he  sought  opportunity  for  medita 
tion  and  for  reading.  In  his  reminiscences  he  says 
that  he  "used  to  go  off,  sometimes  for  weeks  at  a 
stretch,  down  in  the  country  or  to  Long  Island's  sea 
shores —  there  in  the  presence  of  out-door  influences, 
I  went  over  thoroughly  the  Old  and  New  Testaments, 
and  absorb'd  (probably  to  better  advantage  for  me 
than  in  any  library  or  indoor  room  —  it  makes  such 


22  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

difference  where  you  read),  Shakspere,  Ossian,  the  best 
translated  versions  I  could  get  of  Homer,  Eschylus, 
Sophocles,  the  old  German  Nibelungen,  the  ancient 
Hindoo  poems,  and  one  or  two  other  masterpieces, 
Dante's  among  them.  As  it  happen'd,  I  read  the 
latter  mostly  in  an  old  wood.  The  Iliad  (Buckley's 
prose  version)  I  read  first  thoroughly  on  the  peninsula 
of  Orient,  northeast  end  of  Long  Island,  in  a  shelter'd 
hollow  of  rocks  and  sand,  with  the  sea  on  each  side." 
And,  in  another  passage,  he  speaks  of  visits  to  Coney 
Island,  "  at  that  time  a  long,  bare,  unfrequented  shore, 
which  I  had  all  to  myself,  and  where  I  loved,  after 
bathing,  to  race  up  and  down  the  hard  sand,  and 
declaim  Homer  or  Shakspere  to  the  surf  and  seagulls 
by  the  hour." 

This  solitude,  this  communion  with  nature,  this 
increasingly  insistent  habit  of  lonely  meditation,  lay 
deep  at  the  roots  of  his  growing  genius,  and  it  is 
wholly  characteristic  of  the  evolution  of  his  special 
powers  that  we  find  him  at  first  submitting  himself 
instinctively  to  the  influence  of  the  great  classics  of 
old.  Alone  under  stimulating  physical  influences, 
he  first  found  gratification,  while  powerless  himself, 
to  express  his  emotions,  in  reading  and  repeating  the 
greatest  literary  records  of  antiquity.  These  he 
sought  out  unerringly.  Uneducated  in  a  sense,  un 
acquainted  with  foreign  languages,  untrained  in  his 
tory  and  philosophy,  he  was  yet  pushing  onwards 
toward  education  in  a  truer  sense  of  the  word.  He 
had  not  the  temptations  of  the  man  of  university 
training:  literature  and  language  did  not  present 
themselves  to  him  as  an  established  scheme,  already 
definitely  determined,  with  which  he  was  to  become 


ii.]  JOURNALIST    (1841-1850)  23 

familiar  according  to  a  system ;  the  duty  of  under 
standing  why  masterpieces  are  what  they  are  did  not 
lie  heavy  on  him;  philosophic  and  philological  and 
historical  comments  did  not  obtrude  themselves  be 
tween  him  and  literature  itself.  He  was  free  to  com 
prehend,  to  appreciate,  to  absorb  with  reference  to  his 
own  needs  alone.  And,  as  the  result  showed,  his 
miscellaneous  reading  bred  in  him  power. 

His  second  passion  was  for  people.  The  astonish 
ing  range  of  his  acquaintance  at  this  period,  and  for 
many  years  later,  has  been  best  described  by  his  first 
biographer,  Dr.  Bucke  :  — 

"He  knew  the  hospitals,  poorhouses,  prisons,  and  their  in 
mates.  He  passed  freely  in  and  about  those  parts  of  the  city 
which  are  inhabited  by  the  worst  characters  ;  he  knew  all  their 
people,  and  many  of  them  knew  him  ;  he  learned  to  tolerate 
their  squalor,  vice,  and  ignorance  ;  he  saw  the  good  (often 
much  more  than  the  self-righteous  think)  and  the  bad  that  was 
in  them,  and  what  there  was  to  excuse  and  justify  their  lives. 
It  is  said  that  these  people,  even  the  worst  of  them,  while  en 
tire  strangers  to  Walt  Whitman,  quite  invariably  received  him 
without  discourtesy  and  treated  him  well.  Perhaps  only  those 
who  have  known  the  man  personally,  and  have  felt  the  peculiar 
magnetism  of  his  presence,  can  fully  understand  this.  Many  of 
the  worst  of  those  characters  became  singularly  attached  to  him. 
He  knew  and  was  sociable  with  the  man  that  sold  peanuts  at 
the  corner,  and  the  old  woman  that  dispensed  coffee  in  the 
market.  He  did  not  patronize  them,  they  were  to  him  as  good 
as  the  rest,  as  good  as  he,  only  temporarily  dimmed  and  ob 
scured. 

"True,  he  knew,  and  intimately  knew,  the  better-off  and 
educated  people  as  well  as  the  poorest  and  most  ignorant.  Mer 
chants,  lawyers,  doctors,  scholars,  and  writers  were  among  his 
friends.  But  the  people  he  knew  best  and  liked  most  were 
neither  the  rich  and  conventional,  nor  the  worst  and  poorest, 
but  the  decent-born  middle-life  farmers,  mechanics,  carpenters, 


24  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

pilots,  drivers,  masons,  printers,  deck  hands,  team.sters,  drovers, 
and  the  like.  These  and  their  wives  and  children,  their  old 
fathers  and  mothers,  he  knew  as  no  one  I  think  ever  knew 
them  before,  and  between  him  and  them  (especially  the  old 
folks,  the  mothers  and  fathers)  in  numberless  instances  existed 
the  warmest  attachments. 

"  He  made  himself  familiar  with  all  kinds  of  employments, 
not  by  reading  trade  reports  and  statistics,  but  by  watching 
and  stopping  hours  with  the  workmen  (often  his  intimate 
friends)  at  their  work.  He  visited  the  foundries,  shops,  rolling 
mills,  slaughter-houses,  woollen  and  cotton  factories,  shipyards, 
wharves,  and  the  big  carriage  and  cabinet  shops  —  went  to 
clam-bakes,  races,  auctions,  weddings,  sailing  and  bathing  par 
ties,  christenings,  and  all  kinds  of  merry-makings." 

Wherever  the  concourse  of  men  was  most  vivid  and 
significant,  there  Whitman  betook  himself  habitually. 
When,  years  later,  self-expression  came  to  him,  he 
wrote  often  in  prose  and  in  verse  of  the  ferries,  for 
example,  and  few  passages  of  his  work  are  better 
known  than  these.  In  those  dumb  days  of  which 
we  speak,  however,  his  attention  was  doubtless  not 
sharply  focussed  on  what  he  saw  and  heard ;  the  sen 
sations  that  poured  in  upon  him  were  being  stored  up 
against  the  time  when  complete  consciousness  of  him 
self  should  burst  open  within  him,  as  it  were,  and  all 
his  rich  memories  of  sights  and  sounds  should  take 
on  meaning.  He  haunted  Broadway  also,  where  the 
whole  world  seemed  ceaselessly  to  pass  as  in  a  pageant, 
observing  it  by  preference  from  the  top  of  one  of  the 
old  omnibuses.  With  the  drivers  of  these  he  was 
well  acquainted,  and  he  wrote  of  them  subsequently 
in  a  passage  which  deserves  to  be  quoted  here,  as 
indicative  throughout  of  his  love  of  crowds  and  of  his 
passion  for  companionship  :  — 


ii.]  JOURNALIST    (1841-1850)  25 

"  One  phase  of  those  days  must  by  no  means  go  unrecorded 

—  namely,  the  Broadway  omnibuses,  with  their  drivers.     The 
vehicles  still  (I  write  this  paragraph  in  1881)  give  a  portion  of 
the  character  of  Broadway  —  the  Fifth  avenue,  Madison  avenue, 
and  Twenty-third  street  lines  yet  running.     But  the  flush  days 
of  the  old  Broadway  stages,  characteristic  and  copious,  are  over. 
The  Yellow-birds,  the  Red-birds,  the  original  Broadway,  the 
Fourth  Avenue,  the   Knickerbocker,   and  a  dozen   others  of 
twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  are  all  gone.     And  the  men  spe 
cially  identified  with  them,  and  giving  vitality  and  meaning  to 
them  —  the  drivers  —  a  strange,  natural,  quick-eyed  and  won 
drous  race — (not  only  Rabelais  and  Cervantes  would  have 
gloated  upon  them,  but  Homer  and  Shakspere  would) — how 
well  I  remember  them,  and  must  here  give  a  word  about  them. 
How  many  hours,  forenoons  and  afternoons  —  how  many  ex 
hilarating  night-times  I  have  had  —  perhaps  June  or  July,  in 
cooler  air — riding  the  whole  length  of  Broadway,  listening  to 
some  yarn,  (and  the  most  vivid  yarns  ever  spun,  and  the  rarest 
mimicry)  — or  perhaps  I  declaiming  some  stormy  passage  from 
Julius  Caesar  or  Richard,  (you  could  roar  as  loudly  as  you  chose 
in  that  heavy,  dense,  uninterrupted  street-bass.)     Yes,  I  knew 
all  the  drivers  then,  Broadway  Jack,  Dressmaker,  Balky  Bill, 
George   Storms,   Old  Elephant,   his   brother  Young  Elephant 
(who  came  afterward,)  Tippy,  Pop  Rice,  Big  Frank,  Yellow 
Joe,  Pete  Callahan,  Patsy  Dee,  and  dozens  more;   for  there 
were  hundreds.     They  had  immense  qualities,  largely  animal 

—  eating,  drinking,  women  —  great  personal  pride,  in  their  way 

—  perhaps  a  few  slouches  here  and  there,  but  I  should  have 
trusted  the  general  run  of  them,  in  their  simple  good- will  and 
honor,  under  all  circumstances." 

As  Whitman's  love  of  solitude  was  associated,  more 
over,  with  his  enjoyment  of  classic  literature,  so  his 
love  of  companionship  was  linked  with  the  love  of 
those  forms  of  art  which  are  addressed  to  men  in 
groups  or  masses  —  oratory,  the  drama,  the  opera. 
In  many  passages  of  his  verse  and  of  his  reminiscences 
he  refers  to  the  deep  impression  made  upon  him  by 


26  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

these  means.  New  York  was  rich  in  opportunities, 
and,  during  this  period  and  later,  he  often  heard  the 
greatest  orators  and  the  greatest  singers  of  his  time. 
He  was  frequent  in  his  attendance  at  the  theatre  and 
the  opera,  and  he  records  that  his  excellent  habit  was 
to  read  beforehand,  if  he  could,  the  text  of  the  play, 
and  to  revolve  in  his  own  mind  the  playwright's  words, 
in  this  way  enriching  his  appreciation  of  the  artist's 
impersonation. 

Thus  stimulated  by  meditation  in  lonely  places,  by 
classic  literature,  by  companionship  with  his  fellows  of 
every  sort,  by  great  acting  and  fine  music,  Whitman's 
emotional  life,  we  may  surmise,  grew  yearly  more  rich 
and  full.  His  powers  of  expression  meanwhile,  as  we 
shall  now  see,  lagged  far  behind  his  keenness  of  sensa 
tion  and  perception. 

Whitman's  short  stories,  of  which  for  the  con 
venience  of  bibliographers  I  subjoin  a  list,1  belong 

1 1.  Death  in  the  School  Room,  Democratic  Review,  August, 
1841 ;  2.  Wild  Frank's  Return,  same,  November,  1841 ;  3.  Ber- 
vance  :  or  Father  and  Son,  same,  December,  1841 ;  4.  Tomb 
Blossoms,  same,  January,  1842 ;  5.  The  Last  of  the  Sacred 
Army,  same,  March,  1842  ;  6.  The  Child  Ghost,  or  the  Tale  of 
the  Last  Royalist,  same,  March,  1842  ;  7.  A  Legend  of  Life  and 
Love,  same,  July,  1842 ;  8.  The  Angel  of  Tears,  same,  Septem 
ber,  1842  ;  9.  Eris :  a  Spirit  Record,  Columbian,  March,  1844  ; 

10.  Dumb  Kate :  Story  of  an  Early  Death,  same,  May,  1844  ; 

11.  The  Little  Sleighers,  same,  September,  1844 ;  12.  The  Child 
and  the  Profligate,   same,   October,    1844 ;  13.  The   Death  of 
Windfoot,  American  Review,  May,  1845 ;  14.  The  Boy  Lover, 
same,  June,  1845 ;  15.  Revenge  and  Requital :  Tale  of  a  Mur 
derer  Escaped,  Democratic  Review,  July  and  August,   1845  ; 
16.  A  Dialogue  [against  capital  punishment],  same,  Novem 
ber,  1845 ;  17.  Little  Jane,  Brooklyn  Eagle,  December  7,  1846, 


ii.]  JOURNALIST   (1841-1850)  27 

mainly  to  the  first  part  of  the  decade.  About  half  of 
them  appeared  in  the  Democratic  Review,  then  the 
foremost  literary  publication  in  the  United  States,  to 
which  the  more  important  contemporary  writers  were 
also  contributing.  These  little  attempts  at  fiction  do 
not  differ  greatly  from  the  current  work  of  the  same 
period.  In  general  they  aim.  to  seize  upon  the  more 
unusual  and  tragic  elements  in  real  life,  particularly 
those  that  illustrate  some  moral  principle,  and  to 
heighten  them  into  melodrama.  A  brutal  schoolmas 
ter  beats  a  boy  who  seems  asleep  at  his  desk,  but  who 
has  suddenly  died  from  heart  disease ;  a  young  man  on 
a  sudden  impulse  kills  one  who  has  defrauded  him  of 
his  money ;  a  wild  lad  is  dragged  to  death  by  his  own 
horse ;  a  sensitive  youth  pines  away  with  grief  at  the 
death  of  the  girl  he  loves ;  a  profligate  is  redeemed  by 
his  protecting  affection  for  a  child;  a  cruel  father 
shuts  his  son  in  a  madhouse,  —  these  are  all  incidents 
which  may  in  their  essence  have  come  to  his  attention 
first  as  facts,  and  were  then  put  into  the  melodramatic 
narrative  form  then  fashionable  in  America.  In  sub 
stance,  the  sketches  show  a  sensitive  mind,  an  affection 
ate  nature,  a  sympathy  for  suffering  humanity.  In  form, 
they  are  scarcely  praiseworthy :  the  characters  are  gro 
tesque,  the  plot  is  invariably  far  too  rapid  for  clear 
development.  They  belong  to  the  days  when  American 
writers  were  still  fumbling  with  the  short  story,  and 
only  Poe  and  Hawthorne  had  shown  any  skill.  In 

probably  reprinted  from  elsewhere  ;  18.  Lingave's  Temptation. 
Numbers  1,  2,  6,  10,  12,  14,  15  (in  part  under  the  title  of 
One  Wicked  Impulse},  17,  and  18  were  reprinted  in  Prose 
Works  (Pieces  in  Early  Youth}  ;  the  original  place  of  publica 
tion  of  18  is  not  known. 


28  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

style,  they  do  not  rise  above  the  commonplace,  except 
in  a  few  passages  in  which  he  obviously  wrote  under 
the  influence  of  Poe. 

In  brief,  Whitman's  experiments  in  fiction  must 
soon,  have  convinced  him  that  he  was  striving  for 
expression  in  a  form  unfriendly  to  his  genius,  which 
lay  in  his  extraordinary  power  to  depict,  in  rhyth 
mical  language,  and  with  kaleidoscopic  rapidity,  the 
multiplicity  of  detail  in  life,  always  emphasizing  mean 
while  a  common  emotional  element  that  connects  the 
apparently  divergent  phenomena.  His  immense  ac 
quaintanceship  with  the  facts  of  life,  his  passion  for 
people,  individually  and  in  the  mass,  gave  him  mate 
rial  which,  in  another  mind,  might  have  been  fused 
into  great  fiction ;  but  his  temperament  closed  to  him 
the  doors  of  this  form  of  art. 

The  same  comments  may  be  made  on  his  more  ambi 
tious  experiment,  a  novel  called  Franklin  Evans,  or 
the  Inebriate,  which  was  issued  November  23,  1842,  as 
an  extra  number  of  the  New  World,  having  been  previ 
ously  advertised  as  "by  a  popular  American  author, 
one  of  the  best  novelists  in  the  country."  It  was  a 
paper  quarto  of  thirty-four  pages,  and  was  sold  for 
twelve  and  a  half  cents  a  copy,  or  at  the  rate  of  ten 
copies  for  a  dollar.  Twenty  thousand  copies  were  dis 
posed  of,  and  Whitman  was  the  richer  by  a  moderate 
sum.  The  comparatively  large  circulation  of  the  vol 
ume  was  partly  due,  perhaps,  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
issued  in  a  series  where  it  stood  side  by  side  with 
reprints  of  Dickens's  American  Notes,  Macaulay's  Bal 
lads,  and  novels  of  Bulwer  Lytton,  and  partly  because 
it  was,  as  the  publishers  announced,  "  written  with  a 
view  to  aid  the  great  work  of  reform,  and  rescue  young 


ii.]  JOURNALIST   (1841-1850)  29 

men  from  the  demon  of  intemperance."  It  was  a 
loosely  written,  moral,  and  highly  melodramatic  tale, 
in  which  a  Long  Island  lad,  be-deviled  and  besotted 
by  drink,  sinks  lower  and  lower  in  vice  and  crime 
until  at  last,  his  eyes  opened  by  disaster,  he  signs  the 
pledge  of  total  abstinence.  Whitman  himself  was 
always  a  temperate  man,  but  by  no  means  a  total 
abstainer,  and  the  tone  of  the  book  is  one  of  sincerity, 
though  it  is  plain  that  his  zeal  for  his  art  carried  the 
young  writer  beyond  the  limits  of  his  conviction.  An 
old  acquaintance  of  Whitman's  relates  that  Whitman 
had  once  spoken  to  him  of  having  refreshed  himself, 
in  the  midst  of  his  labours  on  this  tract,  with  gin  cock 
tails,  and  Whitman  in  later  years  scorned  the  crude 
art  and  sentimentalism  of  the  book,  and  thought  of 
himself  as  having  outgrown  the  barren  formalism  of 
the  doctrine  which  he  then  enunciated.  At  the  time, 
however,  he  seems  to  have  been  no  less  sincere  in 
this  instance  than  in  his  contemporaneous  pleas  for 
other  reforms. 

The  poems1  known  to  have  been  written  by  Whit- 

1  These  are:  1.  Each  has  his  Grief,  New  World,  supple 
ment,  November  20,  1841  ;  2.  The  Punishment  of  Pride,  same, 
December,  1841  ;  3.  Ambition,  Brother  Jonathan,  January  29, 
1842 ;  4.  Death  of  the  Nature  Lover,  same,  March,  1843 ; 

5.  Dough-face   Song,   New  York  Evening  Post,  about  1848 ; 

6.  Blood-money,  known  to  have  appeared  in  the  same,  1853, 
but  said  by  Whitman  to  have  been  first  printed  in  the  Tribune, 
and  dated  in  Pieces  in  Early  Youth,  April,  1843;   7.  Wounded 
in  the  House  of  Friends,  said  by  Whitman  to  have  appeared  in 
the  Tribune;  8.  Sailing  the  Mississippi  at  Midnight,  New  Orleans 
Crescent,  March  6,  1848.     Numbers  5,  6, 7,  and  8  are  reprinted  in 
Pieces  in  Early  Youth.    The  date  of  number  8,  together  with  other 
information  relating  to  Whitman's  work  on  the  Crescent,  has 
been  kindly  furnished  me  by  W.  K.  Dart,  Esq.,  of  New  Orleans. 


30  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

man  previous  to  1850  are  thin,  amateurish,  moralizing 
productions,  of  a  kind  thoroughly  familiar  to  readers 
of  old  American  and  English  periodicals.  It  is  in 
vain  that  we  search  them  for  hints  of  his  later  manner. 
It  is  sufficient  for  the  biographer  to  record  their  names 
and  the  dates  at  which  they  appeared,  and  to  pass  on 
without  further  comment.  It  is  not  out  of  these 
casual  experiments  that  Whitman's  art  grew. 

His  professional  writing,  finally,  as  shown  in  his  edi 
torials  in  the  Eagle,  though  somewhat  too  colloquial  and 
disjointed  for  genuine  power,  was  simple  and  unaffected, 
sound  in  judgment,  familiar  in  tone,  and  usually  clear 
in  expression.  He  gossips  artlessly  about  the  weather ; 
he  exhorts  his  readers  to  quit  physic  and  blood-letting, 
and  to  bathe  with  regularity ;  he  describes,  pleasantly 
enough,  such  sights  as  seem  to  him  most  striking;  he 
interests  himself  in  local  reforms,  rebukes  trades- 
unions,  but  champions  a  living  wage.  Nor  is  he  lack 
ing  in  interest  in  national  problems  of  ethics.  He 
argues  shrewdly  against  capital  punishment,  urges  a 
kindlier  treatment  of  animals,  inveighs  against  the 
slave  trade,  though  he  realizes  that  "  you  can't  legislate 
men  into  virtue.  We  wouldn't  give  a  snap  for  the  aid 
of  the  legislature  in  forwarding  a  purely  moral  revolu 
tion  !  It  must  work  its  way  through  individual  minds. 
It  must  spread  from  its  own  beauty,  and  melt  into  the 
hearts  of  men  —  not  to  be  forced  upon  them  at  the 
point  of  the  sword,  or  by  the  stave  of  the  officer."  In 
political  matters,  though,  particularly  during  his  so 
journ  in  New  Orleans,  he  was  sometimes  tempted  to 

The  discovery  of  several  items  in  this  list,  and  in  the  list  of 
prose  writings  on  page  26,  is  due  to  the  patient  investigations 
carried  on  by  Miss  Charlotte  Morgan. 


ii.]  JOURNALIST    (1841-1850)  31 

despair  of  the  republic,  he  showed  a  large  hopefulness. 
For  definite  political  parties  he  cared  little.  He  found 
slight  difference  between  the  Democratic  party  —  his 
own  —  and  the  opposition.  Each  had  its  demagogues 
and  "  ignorant,  ill-bred,  passionate  men."  But  he  ob 
jected  in  general  to  the  class,  in  any  modern  nation, 
"  who  looked  upon  all  men  as  things  to  be  governed  — 
as  having  evil  ways  that  cannot  be  checked  better 
than  by  law ;  a  class  who  point  to  the  past  and  hate 
innovation.'7  He  casts  his  fortunes,  on  the  contrary, 
with  the  class  who  wish  "  to  deal  liberally  with  human 
ity,  to  treat  it  in  confidence,  and  give  it  a  chance 
of  expanding  through  the  measured  freedom  of  its 
own  nature  and  impulses."  In  a  brief  essay  on  "  Art 
Singing  and  Heart  Singing,"  in  the  Broadiuay  Journal, 
moreover,  he  showed  a  like  broad-mindedness  in  advo 
cating  the  development  of  a  national  school  of  music, 
which  should  be  a  full  expression  of  all  the  character 
istics  and  idiosyncrasies  of  the  United  States  —  of 
democracy  and  Americanism. 

In  spite  of  the  sound  sense  and  kindly  feeling  of 
the  writings  of  this  type,  however,  there  is  nothing 
that  presages  the  special  beauty  of  Whitman's  prose 
style.  As  in  fiction  and  verse,  this  was  for  him  a 
decade  merely  of  beginnings,  of  necessary  but  unsuc 
cessful  experiments  in  alien  forms.  In  spite  of  his 
rapid  intellectual  and  emotional  growth,  he  was  still 
dumb.  He  was  trying  to  express  himself  in  the  wrords 
of  others,  and  his  own  lips  had  not  yet  been  unsealed. 

Up  to  the  very  end  of  this  period,  then,  we  find  in 
Whitman  only  the  faintest  traces,  in  habits,  in  aims,  in 
tone  and  character  of  expression,  of  the  greater  per 
sonality  he  was  so  soon  to  become.  Successively  com- 


32  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP.  n. 

positor,  teacher,  journalist,  he  had  satisfied  the  main 
requirements  of  each  profession  without  attaining  dis 
tinction.  He  was,  roughly  speaking,  still  a  mediocre 
man,  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  He  knew  the  coun 
try  and  the  city,  the  East  and  the  Southwest ;  he  had 
an  exceptionally  large  and  varied  acquaintance.  His 
dress  was  conventional,  no  less  than,  his  style  as  a 
writer :  in  no  respect  had  he  broken  away  from  the 
current  artifices  of  society.  He  was  in  thorough 
health,  calm  and  dignified  in  bearing,  and  free  from 
petty  vices.  He  was  heartily  fond  of  literature  and 
music.  He  meditated  much.  With  less  literary  train 
ing,  with  fewer  literary  associations,  he  had  a  wider  and 
deeper  knowledge  of  the  life  of  American  citizens,  and 
a  deeper  sympathy  with  them,  than  any  other  writer  of 
his  time.  But  nothing  in  his  dormant,  undeveloped 
personality  served  to  indicate  the  extraordinary  height 
ening  of  power  which  was  so  soon  to  make  him  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  men  of  his  time.  An  observant 
contemporary,  acquainted  with  all  the  facts,  could  have 
only  said  that  if  genius  were  to  be  late  born  in  such  a 
man ;  if  such  a  mind  and  body  were  to  be  vitalized  by 
some  unknown,  some  tremendously  dynamic  force;  if 
such  a  placid  mortal  were  to  be  transformed  into  a 
poet  or  prophet,  he  would  at  least  be  unique.  It  was 
not  along  conventional  lines  that  such  a  spirit  could 
be  developed. 


CHAPTER   III 

WORKMAN   AND    POET    (1850-1860) 

IT  is  still  to  be  hoped  that  documents  of  some  sort 
exist  which  will  throw  light  upon  Whitman's  life  be 
tween  his  return  from  New  Orleans  and  the  first  ap 
pearance  of  Leaves  of  Grass  in  1855.  During  these 
years  he  wrote  much,  and  yet  we  have  virtually  noth 
ing  that  will  indicate  the  nature  of  the  marvellous 
change  that  was  taking  place  in  him.  He  had  many 
friends,  but  apparently  none  who  cared  for  literature, 
or  who  were  sufficiently  acute  to  appreciate  the  trans 
formation  that  was  being  wrought  before  their  eyes. 
And  in  his  own  reminiscences,  full  as  they  are,  there  is 
little  that  bears  closely  upon  the  matter.  At  thirty- 
one  he  was  a  somewhat  indolent  newspaper  writer, 
with  an  undeveloped  style  —  the  sign  of  a  mind  that 
had  not  yet  come  to  self-knowledge.  At  thirty-six  he 
had  written  a  series  of  extraordinary  poems,  original 
both  in  form  and  in  substance.  And  yet  the  genesis 
of  this  novel  form  and  substance  remains  practically 
unknown,  —  such  are  the  miracles  that  nature  works. 
But  nature  does  not  leap,  and  we  must  endeavour  as 
best  we  can  to  bridge  the  gap  and  understand  the 
change. 

Returning  from  his  short  trip  to  the  South  in  1848, 
Whitman  rejoined  his  family,  then  living  in  Brooklyn. 
There  was  the  father,  and  his  sons  Walt  and  George 
D  33 


34  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

and  Jeff,  all  able-bodied  men,  besides  the  disabled  Ed 
ward,  the  mother,  the  daughter  Hannah  and,  a  little 
later,  Mattie,  Jeff's  wife.  It  was  a  patriarchal  house 
hold  of  the  old  type,  the  men  labouring  outside  the 
house,  and  the  women  doing  the  simple  domestic  tasks 
without  assistance.  Into  this  life  Whitman  settled 
himself  without  delay  and  without  friction.  The  clan 
was  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and  it  was  merely 
necessary  that  he  should  contribute  his  share  to  the 
living  expenses,  —  a  share  which  he  always  paid, 
though  sometimes  intermittently.  At  first  he  had  a 
small  bookstore  and  printing-office,  and  edited  and 
published  the  Freeman,  a  weekly  free-soil  paper,  but 
within  a  year  his  part  in  this  venture  came  to  an  end. 
He  then  associated  himself  with  his  father  in  the 
mingled  trade  and  business  of  master-carpenter  and 
builder,  erecting  small  frame  houses,  which  were  sold 
on  completion.  At  that  epoch  Brooklyn  was  growing 
rapidly,  such  speculation  was  profitable,  and  Whitman 
was  soon  in  the  way  to  become  well-to-do,  when,  early 
in  1855,  at  about  the  time  of  his  father's  death,  he 
gave  up  his  work  without  explanation.  His  duty  to 
himself  lay  more  heavily  on  him  than  did  money- 
making. 

Meanwhile  his  daily  habits  were  simple.  He  spent 
the  day  with  his  workmen,  taking  with  him  his  dinner 
pail,  and  a  book,  a  magazine,  or  even  an  article  torn 
from  a  magazine,  —  generally  prose,  and  invariably 
serious  matter,  —  over  which  he  could  ponder  during 
the  noon  hour.  His  holidays  and  the  intermissions 
in  his  work  he  spent,  in  good  weather,  in  the  open  air, 
often  at  the  seashore,  where  he  read  and  bathed  and 
thought  and  wrote.  In  the  evening  he  frequently 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  35 

crossed  the  ferry  to  the  city,  where  he  visited  the 
theatre  or  opera,  or  walked  and  meditated,  continuing 
and  increasing  his  acquaintanceship  with  all  classes  of 
men,  but  especially  with  workingmen,  and  more  par 
ticularly  with  ferry-hands  and  stage-drivers.  The 
lesser  journalists  and  other  members  of  the  Bohemian 
world  he  met  at  Pfaff's  restaurant,  but  it  was  appar 
ently  not  until  after  1855  .that  he  became  a  frequent 
visitor  there.  It  was  a  life  of  regular  labour  and  much 
meditation,  under  the  constant  stimulus  of  city  life, 
and  without  influences  from  the  conventional  world 
of  letters. 

Whitman,  then,  was  a  workman  and,  in  a  modest 
way,  an  employer  of  labour  and  a  man  of  business, 
but  he  never  dreamed  of  leaving  the  ranks.  He  was 
not  the  workman  who  strains  every  nerve  to  make  and 
save  money,  and  thus  become  in  his  turn  a  capitalist. 
Instead,  he  made  as  little  as  possible.  With  antique 
simplicity,  he  had,  like  Thoreau,  decreased  the  de 
nominator  of  life's  fraction,  instead  of  increasing  its 
numerator.  He  was  unmarried ;  his  dress  was  simple, 
his  expenses  small ;  a  few  dollars  a  week  covered  his 
share  for  food  in  the  house  of  his  clan.  All  his  sur 
plus  time  and  energy  were  going  —  unknown  even  to 
his  closest  friend  —  to  the  enrichment  of  his  emotional 
and  intellectual  life. 

Perhaps  too  much  has  been  made  even  of  Whitman's 
reading,  which  might  be  supposed  to  constitute  a 
slight  bond  between  him  and  the  world  of  organized 
tradition  and  learning.  It  is  true  that  he  was  familiar 
with  Shakspere  and  had  read  other  great  authors,  but 
there  is  nothing  to  show  that  at  this  critical  period  of 
his  life  he  was  steeped  in  literature,  or  that  literature 


36  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

was  an  active  influence  in  his  development.  Emerson 
he  must  have  read  sufficiently  to  catch  some  of  the 
main  points  of  his  doctrine  and  to  be  somewhat  im 
pressed  by  his  style.  But,  generally  speaking,  he 
read  for  knowledge  rather  than  for  inspiration.  Per 
haps  he  would  instinctively  have  preferred  to  learn  by 
the  ear,  for  he  was  a  shrewd  questioner  and  made 
notes  of  what  he  acquired  in  conversation.  In  default 
of  first-hand  information  by  word  of  mouth  he  turned 
to  serious  books  and  particularly  to  magazines,  taking 
them  apparently  by  chance,  wherever  an  article  seemed 
to  promise  instruction.  These  he  read  and  marked 
and  annotated,  sucking  the  very  marrow  from  the 
bones.  Of  organized  knowledge,  of  the  systematized 
learning  of  the  libraries,  of  that  vast  structure  of 
classified  information  that  we  call  scholarship,  he  had 
no  real  conception.  He  handled  books  clumsily ;  he 
was  not  a  bookman.  To  him  reading  was  merely  an 
adjunct  of  the  power  of  observation,  an  additional 
and  secondary  means  of  accumulating  percepts.  His 
mental  digestion,  however,  was  perfect.  Longfellow, 
the  typical  bookman,  read  incessantly,  as  the  records 
in  his  journal  show,  but  read,  as  it  were,  merely  to 
exercise  his  eyes,  to  keep  fresh  his  linguistic  know 
ledge,  and  to  find  hints  for  the  use  of  his  fancy :  his 
comments  show  little  acumen.  But  among  Whitman's 
papers  dating  from  this  period  we  already  begin  to 
find  wise  and  shrewd  memoranda  on  books  and 
authors,  foreshadowing  his  later  criticism,  which, 
though  fragmentary,  is  perhaps  more  consistent,  more 
stimulating,  and  of  more  permanent  value  than  that 
of  any  of  his  contemporaries. 

Books  were  not  the  most  potent  influence  in  this 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET   (1850-1860)  37 

period  of  preparation  through  which  he  was  uncon 
sciously  passing.  His  passion  was  for  the  outer  world, 
the  tangible  world.  He  preferred  to  learn  directly 
from  things  and  through  people.  He  haunted  the  opera, 
the  theatre,  shows,  museums,  and  collections  of  all 
kinds,  listening,  comparing,  absorbing.  The  great  city, 
growing  greater  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  cosmopoli 
tan  from  the  first,  he  knew  as  did  few  others,  in  all 
its  nooks  and  corners,  through  all  its  grades  of  occu 
pation  and  nationality.  In  this  knowledge  he  sub 
merged  himself  utterly  and  for  long  periods,  as  a  great 
scholar  in  his  sources  and  authorities,  as  a  great 
scientist  in  the  observation  of  his  material.  The  little 
group  in  the  great  mass  that  represented  education, 
culture,  and  traditional  refinement  he  did  not  so 
much  ignore  as  put  in  its  position  of  inferiority :  he 
craved  the  knowledge  of  the  whole ;  he  was  possessed 
by  the  passion  for  humanity.  A  man  of  the  crowd, 
lie  loved  Broadway:  —  and  Broadway  perhaps  most 
when,  packed  with  people,  it  welcomed  some  great 
citizen  — "  all  that  indescribable  human  roar  and 
magnetism,  unlike  any  other  sound  in  the  universe  — 
the  glad,  exulting  thunder-shouts  of  countless  unloos'd 
throats  of  men."  And  he  was  similarly  moved,  he 
tells  us,  by  the  concourse  at  the  Old  Bowery  Theatre  :  — 
"pack'd  from  ceiling  to  pit  with  its  audience  mainly 
of  alert,  well-dress'd,  full-blooded  young  and  middle- 
aged  .men,  the  best  average  of  American-born  me 
chanics —  the  emotional  nature  of  the  whole  mass 
arous'd  by  the  power  and  magnetism  of  as  mighty 
inirnes  as  ever  trod  the  stage  —  the  whole  crowded 
auditorium,  and  what  seeth'd  in  it,  and  flushed  from 
its  faces  and  eyes,  to  me  as  much  a  part  of  the  show 


38  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

as  any  —  bursting  forth  in  one  of  those  long-kept-up 
tempests  of  hand-clapping  peculiar  to  the  Bowery  — 
no  dainty  kid-glove  business,  but  electric  force  and 
muscle  from  perhaps  2000  full-sinew'd  men."  Such 
was  the  real  course  of  education  through  which  Whit 
man  passed.  In  his  craving  for  knowledge  of  things 
human  he  was  packing  his  mind  with  almost  limitless 
acquisition  of  material,  —  material  not  so  much  ana 
lyzed  and  classified  as  absorbed,  until  the  very  mass 
of  it  brought  steadily  nearer  the  time  when  expression 
was  necessary  and  inevitable. 

In  outward  appearance,  Whitman  came  back  from 
the  South  "  looking  older  and  wiser,"  to  use  the  words 
of  his  brother  George.  His  hair  and  beard  were 
tinged  with  gray.  About  this  time,  too,  he  changed 
his  manner  of  dress.  Hitherto  he  had  retained  the 
garb  of  the  journalist,  attaching  himself  thus  to  what 
we  vaguely  call  the  upper  classes.  Now  he  chose  to 
wear  the  more  becoming  and  more  appropriate  dress 
of  the  workman,  and  the  familiar  daguerreotype  of 
1854,  used  in  the  first  edition  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass, 
represents  him  as  such,  in  shirt  and  trousers,  with  one 
hand  on  his  hip  and  the  other  in  his  pocket,  a  soft 
black  hat  on  his  head.  The  relaxed  pose  is  that  of 
the  labourer  off  duty,  and,  perhaps  on  account  of  the 
small  size  of  the  daguerreotype,  which  throws  the 
emphasis  on  the  body  rather  than  the  face,  one  gets 
an  impression  of  aggressive  masculinity ;  but  the  face 
itself,  when  examined  closely,  is  earnest  and  solemn, 
even  wistful.  More  impressive  still  is  another  daguer 
reotype  of  the  same  year,  in  which  only  the  head  and 
shoulders  appear.  The  garb  is  the  same,  but  the 
head  is  uncovered,  and  the  features  are  more  distinct. 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  39 

The  hair  is  not  long,  the  grayish  beard  is  well  trimmed, 
and  these  frame  in  a  face  of  wonderful  power  and 
beauty  —  large  features,  a  full  mouth  slightly  opened 
as  if  in  speech,  a  large  nose,  quiet,  penetrating  eyes, 
and  the  peculiar  look  of  the  mystic,  the  man  who  sees 
beyond  outward  phenomena  into  the  world  beyond. 
In  the  next  decade  his  face  seemed  shorter  and 
chubbier  and  his  dress  was  less  becoming.  It  was 
only  in  later  life  that  he  regained  this  air  of  the  poet 
and  the  prophet. 

His  personal  characteristics  at  the  time  are  best  in 
dicated  in  the  reminiscences  of  his  brother  George, 
which  have  special  reference  to  this  period.  Whitman 
was  cool,  "never  flurried,  curiously  deliberate  in  all 
his  actions  " ;  reticent  to  the  point  of  stubborn  reserve, 
gentle  and  conciliating  in  intercourse  with  others,  plain 
in  his  way  of  living,  and  abstemious  in  his  food.  Alco 
holic  drinks  he  used  only  rarely,  and  he  did  not  smoke. 
He  was  clean  and  chaste  in  speech  and  conduct,  and 
was  not  known  even  to  pay  attention  to  women.  He 
went  his  own  way,  never  asking  counsel  of  others.  He 
did  not  "  seem  greater  than  others  —  just  different." 

The  first  distinguishing  element  of  the  new  writings 
of  Whitman,  when  they  at  last  appeared,  emerging,  as 
it  were,  from  the  depths  of  his  solitary  broodings,  was 
their  form ;  and  it  is  simplest  to  begin  our  account  of 
his  real  work  with  this  thread  in  hand.  His  chosen 
medium  was  an  unrhymed  species  of  free  verse,  —  at 
first  recognizable  as  verse  only  because  it  was  printed 
as  such,  —  without  an  obvious  metrical  pattern,  but 
containing  at  intervals  brief  phrases  or  passages  which 
the  attention  at  once  seized  as  regularly  iambic  or  dac 
tylic.  It  has  often  been  compared  with  the  rhythm  of 


40  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Raskin,  or  other  so-called  prose-poets,  in  their  highest 
flights,  and  condemned  as  being  merely  balanced  prose 
arranged  in  the  printed  form  of  verse.  Yet  to  many 
ears  Whitman's  rhythm  is  finely  musical,  and  one  ends 
by  finding  behind  its  apparent  vagaries  a  norm,  habit 
ual  or  typical,  to  which  it  is  constantly  approximating, 
but  which  nevertheless  has  not  yet  been  formulated. 
Professor  Scott,  who  has  made  the  most  careful  study 
of  this  rhythm,  speaks  of  Whitman's  "  delicate  suscep 
tibility  to  certain  modes  of  motion  and  sequences  of 
sound,  particularly  the  free  swaying,  urging  motions 
of  the  ferry-boat,  the  railroad  train,  the  flight  of  the 
birds,  and,  among  sounds,  those  of  the  wind,  the  locusts 
in  the  treetops,  and  the  sea."  Whitman  himself  was 
accustomed  to  speak  of  his  lines  as  seemingly  "  lawless 
at  first  perusal,  although  on  closer  examination  a 
certain  regularity  appears,  like  the  recurrence  of  lesser 
and  larger  waves  on  the  sea-shore,  rolling  in  without 
intermission  and  fitfully  rising  and  falling."  It  is 
plain,  in  brief,  that  he  had  conceived  of  a  delicate  but 
definite  rhythmical  form  or  verse-tune,  which  he 
always  kept  in  mind,  and  to  which  he  wrote,  approach 
ing  it  by  many  corrections,  which  it  is  easy  to  see  from 
his  successive  drafts  that  he  often  made  for  the  sake 
of  the  form  as  distinguished  from  that  of  the  sense. 

There  has  been  much  debate  —  futile  because  wholly 
rhetorical  —  as  to  whether  this  rhythmical  form,  lying 
on  the  border  of  the  two  provinces,  shall  be  called 
prose  or  poetry.  It  is  both  and  neither,  and  the  com 
mon-sense  of  the  matter  seems  to  be  that  we  lack 
an  unambiguous  term  to  describe  it,  the  traditional 
nomenclature  of  art  being  faulty  in  this  respect  as  in 
others.  Let  us  be  content,  however,  here  to  call  it 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND  POET   (1850-1860)  41 

verse,  meaning  thereby  to  describe  its  more  predomi 
nant  element  and  to  indicate  its  high  value  in  the  scale 
of  emotional  expression. 

We  shall  be  wise,  then,  if  without  discussing  the 
name  of  this  new  art  form,  we  look  at  its  origin. 
Plainly  it  is  not  a  development  from  Whitman's  early 
verse  or  his  early  prose,  nor  is  it  a  combination  of  both. 
His  known  poetical  productions,  as  late  as  1849,  were 
crude  in  form,  but  conventional.  Blood  Money  and 
In  the  House  of  his  Friends  are  plainly  transitional 
forms,  but  their  dates  are  still  uncertain.  His  usual 
prose,  down  to  as  late  as  1864,  as  shown  in  a  published 
letter  to  the  mayor  and  common  council  of  Brooklyn, 
is  straightforward  but  stiff,  without  signs  of  develop 
ing  along  rhythmical  lines.  Unless,  therefore,  some 
missing  link  can  be  found,  we  can  safely  conclude  that 
the  new  form  came  about  in  a  new  way,  without  special 
reference  to  his  earlier  habits  of  composition. 

It  seems  clear  also  that  Whitman  did  not  light  on 
his  characteristic  form  of  expression  by  imitation. 
With  Blake's  experiments  he  was  not  familiar.  The 
balanced  verse  of  the  Bible,  our  common  heritage,  was 
undoubtedly  an  element  in  his  invention,  but  it  was 
plainly  not  a  predominating  or  essential  element. 
The  Ossianic  formula,  faintly  akin,  he  knew,  but  he 
recognized  it  as  alien  to  his  spirit,  and  he  jotted  down 
among  his  many  memoranda  at  this  period  the  com 
mand  unto  himself  that  he  was,  at  all  costs,  not  to  fall 
into  that  method.  Tupper's  verse  was  familiar  to  him, 
and  has  some  similarity  to  that  which  he  adopted, 
though  more  in  matter  than  in  rhythm,  but  it  would 
be  absurd  to  find  in  Tupper's  flat  and  unmelodious 
style  more  than  a  bungling  reaction  against  conven- 


42  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

tional  forms.  Einerson  and  others  of  his  school  had 
long  sighed  for  a  new  poetic  medium,  and  had  from 
time  to  time  made  divers  experiments,  but  neither  the 
vague  theory  nor  the  uncertain  practice  could  have 
aided  Whitman.  The  suggestion  of  a  prototype  in 
Samuel  Warren's  The  Lily  and  the  Bee  seems  at  first 
to  offer  a  fair  parallel ;  but  careful  comparison  reveals 
the  distinct  difference  of  key  and  tone  between  the 
two  methods,  and  makes  it  improbable  that  either 
could  have  served  as  a  model  for  the  other.  Moreover, 
The  Lily  and  the  Bee  was  not  published  in  England 
until  1851,  and  by  March  31,  1851,  Whitman  had 
already  found  the  key  to  his  new  style,  for  in  a  lecture 
delivered  on  that  day  before  the  Brooklyn  Art  Union 
occur  characteristic  verses  that  afterwards  found  a 
natural  place  in  one  of  his  longer  poems. 

The  passage  in  this  lecture  seems  to  me  to  give  the 
clew.  Whitman's  verse-method  grew  of  his  own  im 
passioned  speech.  As  long  as  he  wrote  for  the  eye 
only,  he  followed  the  conventional  forms  of  literature, 
both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  without  showing  unusual 
ability.  It  was  only  when  he  began  to  conceive  him 
self  as  speaking  that  he  found  himself  following  un 
certainly  a  faint,  new,  and  inner  rhythm,  as  it  were 
that  of  his  own  pulses :  — 

"  Talk  not  so  much,  then,  young  artist,  of  the  great  old 
masters  who  but  painted  and  chiselled.  Study  not  only  their 
productions.  There  is  a  still  better,  higher  school  for  him  who 
would  kindle  his  fire  with  coal  from  the  altar  of  the  loftiest  and 
purest  art.  It  is  the  school  of  all  grand  actions  and  grand  vir 
tues,  of  heroism,  of  the  deaths  of  captives  and  martyrs  —  of  all 
the  mighty  deeds  written  in  the  pages  of  history — deeds  of 
daring  and  enthusiasm  and  devotion  and  fortitude.  Read  well 
the  death  of  Socrates.  Read  how  slaves  have  battled  against 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  43 

their  oppressors  —  how  the  bullets  of  tyrants  have,  since  the 
first  king  ruled,  never  been  able  to  put  down  the  unquenchable 
thirst  of  man  for  his  rights. 

"In  the  sunny  peninsula  where  art  was  transplanted  from 
Greece  and  generations  afterward  flourished  into  new  life,  we 
even  now  see  the  growth  that  is  to  be  expected  among  a  people 
pervaded  by  a  love  and  appreciation  of  beauty.  In  Naples,  in 
Rome,  in  Venice,  that  ardor  for  liberty  which  is  a  constituent 
part  of  all  well-developed  artists  and  without  which  a  man 
cannot  be  such,  has  had  a  struggle  —  a  hot  and  baffled  one. 
The  inexplicable  destinies  have  shaped  it  so.  The  dead  lie 
in  their  graves ;  but  their  august  and  beautiful  enthusiasm  is 
not  dead :  — 

"  Those  corpses  of  young  men, 
Those  martyrs  that  hung  from  the  gibbets, 
Those  hearts  pierced  by  the  gray  lead, 
Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seem 
Live  elsewhere  with  undying  vitality ; 
They  live  in  other  young  men,  0  kings, 
They  live  in  brothers  again  ready  to  defy  you. 
They  were  purified  by  death  ; 
They  were  taught  and  exalted. 
Not  a  grave  of  those  slaughtered  ones 
But  is  growing  its  seed  of  freedom, 
In  its  turn  to  bear  seed, 
Which  the  wind  shall  carry  afar  and  re-sow, 
And  the  rain  nourish. 
Not  a  disembodied  spirit 
Can  the  weapons  of  tyrants  let  loose 
But  it  shall  stalk  invisibly  over  the  earth 
Whispering,  counselling,  cautioning." 

The  style  of  Whitman's  discourse  is  strikingly  like 
that  of  Emerson,  with  whose  essays  or  lectures  we 
must  probably  assume  him  to  be  familiar.  This  prose 
style  of  address,  unlike  his  prose  style  when  he  was 
writing  only  for  others  to  read,  tended  to  flower  into 


44  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

a  form  of  free  verse  that  has  a  strong  resemblance  to 
the  verse  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass.  I  venture  to  guess 
that  it  was  in  some  such  way  that  Whitman  discov 
ered  the  only  medium  which  would  serve  him  in  his 
desire  for  self-expression,  for  a  form  of  expression  that 
would  parallel  his  peculiar  emotional  states,  and  would 
tend  to  produce  in  others  emotional  states  of  the  same 
kind. 

What  psychology  has  to  tell  us  about  the  whole 
language  process  may  lend  some  weight  to  the  con 
jecture.  The  poet's  words  are  but  the  crude  and  out 
ward  symbols  of  that  inner  language,  that  subtle  play 
of  mental  imagery,  that  unusual  and  individual  com 
bination  of  percepts  which  is  his  real  distinction.  His 
words  are  only  the  accompaniment  of  his  thought: 
they  come  to  him  in  various  ways,  according  to  the 
predominance  in  him  —  habitual  or  momentary  —  of 
one  part  or  another  of  the  somewhat  intricate  psycho 
logical  mechanism  by  which  alone  may  words  spring 
up  within  our  consciousness  in  alliance  with  our 
thought.  We  have,  it  would  appear,  a  storehouse  of 
memories  of  words  seen,  from  which  certain  visual 
images,  apparitions  —  as  it  were  —  detach  themselves 
automatically  at  our  need;  and  corresponding,  but  sep 
arate,  storehouses  of  words  heard,  and  spoken,  and 
written.  On  these  four  treasuries,  heaped  up  by  the 
action  of  the  eye  and  the  ear  and  the  muscles  of  the 
throat  and  hand,  all  language  ultimately  depends. 
Now  the  lettered  poet  may  find  his  medium  without 
difficulty,  because  his  eye-treasury  is  highly  developed 
by  much  reading,  or  because  his  hand-treasury  is  so 
full  that  words  come  easily  when  he  takes  up  his  pen. 
But  Whitman  was  unlettered  and  came  of  an  unlet- 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  45 

tered  race ;  such,  treasuries  in  his  brain  gave  him  only 
normal  aid  and  stimulus.  As  long  as  he  depended 
upon  them,  he  followed  merely  the  dull  conventions 
of  literature,  and  his  expression  lagged  behind  his 
thought.  The  incredible  activity  and  richness  of  his 
inner  life  only  reached  expression  —  such  is  my  hy 
pothesis —  when  he  began  to  make  use  of  the  treasure- 
houses  of  the  heard  and  the  spoken  word  —  those  most 
ancient  of  language  associations  in  the  history  of  the 
race.  When  he  trusted  to  his  ear  and  his  voice,  when 
he  spoke  aloud  or  to  himself,  the  floodgates  swung 
open.  To  the  great  mass  of  intricately  allied  inner 
phenomena  of  his  mind  was  added  a  characteristic  and 
individual  form  of  expression. 

Whether  one  gives  credence  or  not  to  such  a  theory, 
however,  the  fact  remains  that  at  the  period  at  which 
Whitman  found  his  new  style,  he  was  possessed  with 
the  idea  of  communicating  his  ideas  to  others  through 
the  medium  of  public  discourse.  He  wrote  "  barrels  " 
of  lectures,  his  brother  George  recalled,  which  still 
exist  in  the  shape  of  a  multitude  of  notes,  outlines, 
and  short  passages,  some  of  which  have  been  published 
by  his  executors.  They  were  written  either  at  this 
time  or  a  little  later,  when,  with  the  comparative  fail 
ure  of  Leaves  of  Grass  to  reach  the  public,  his  old 
faith  in  his  power  to  thrill  mankind  by  the  music  of 
the  spoken  word  blazed  up  again  in  full  force.  The 
new  form  hovered  between  prose  and  verse ;  it  was 
living,  musical,  rhythmical,  impassioned  speech.  If 
it  had  a  prototype  or  an  origin,  it  may  be  said  to  have 
been  born  of  the  rhythm  which  he  heard  in  nature 
and  of  his  memories  of  the  arias  and  recitatives  of 
the  Italian  opera. 


46  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Whitman  was,  then,  impelled  to  speak  unto  the 
sons  of  men,  and  after  much  search  he  found  a  new 
way,  his  own  special  rhythm  and  music.  What  mes 
sage  was  he  to  utter  ? 

If  Whitman  had  been  constituted  as  other  men, 
susceptible  as  they  to  conventional  rhythm,  he  wTould 
have  written  in  metre  and  rhythm.  But  he  was  not 
so  constituted.  Similarly,  if  he  had  the  conventional 
education,  and  the  associations  with  his  fellow-men, 
common  to  other  men  of  letters,  he  would  perhaps 
like  them  have  used  the  ordinary  poetic  material. 
But  he  had  both  a  new  poetic  medium  and  new  poetic 
matter.  He  drew  his  inspiration  from  another  world, 
a  world  circumambient  about  his  contemporaries  but 
one  whose  existence  they  ignored  or  were  ignorant  of. 
Ours  is  the  world  of  the  minority  —  that  of  the  stable 
folk  of  education  and  recognized  position.  At  this 
period  Whitman  knew  this  world  only  slightly,  and 
he  never  knew  it  well ;  his  real  sympathies  and  affilia 
tions  were  with  the  vast  world  of  artisans  and  labourers. 
In  New  England  there  was  perhaps  a  time  when  ele 
mentary  education  was  so  widespread,  and  literary 
and  religious  influences  so  pervasive,  that  these  worlds 
tended  to  overlap  and  merge;  and  under  such  con 
ditions  Whittier  was  born  and  lived,  in  full  sympathy 
with  a  special  and  local  class  of  somewhat  sophisti 
cated  workmen.  But  in  the  Middle  States,  and  par 
ticularly  in  the  great  city,  the  situation  then  and  now 
was  widely  different.  Separate  oneself  by  a  hand's 
breadth,  as  it  were,  from  the  world  to  whom  books 
are  even  partly  familiar,  and  one  reaches  the  multi 
tude  of  those  who  live  and  toil  and  love  and  hate 
outside  the  faintest  influences  of  literature  and  art 


in.]  WORKMAN   AND   POET    (1850-1860)  47 

and  philosophy.  They  read,  perhaps,  but  only  scraps 
from  the  newspapers.  They  are  unconscious  of  the 
past  and  unmindful  of  the  future.  Science  and  learn 
ing  and  art  are  mere  words  to  them.  They  take  life 
as  it  is,  and  have  few  theories  about  it.  Between  the 
two  worlds  is  fixed  a  great  abyss. 

This  world  of  the  majority,  on  which  ours  is  only 
tangential,  and  of  which  we  are  so  ignorant,  and  par 
ticularly  the  world  of  the  city  labourer, Whitman  knew 
well,  and  he  was  the  only  American  man  of  letters 
who  was  thoroughly  familiar  with  it.  To  Longfellow 
and  Lowell  and  Holmes  it  was  terra  incognita,  for 
they  had  travelled  little  in  their  own  country,  and  at 
home  had  never  passed  the  social  boundaries  of  their 
class.  Emerson  had  travelled  much,  but  always  as  a 
philosopher,  to  a  large  degree  unconscious  of  and  un 
sympathetic  with  the  life  of  the  masses.  Whittier 
alone  had  something  of  the  same  sympathy  with  the 
people  of  the  under  or  basic  world,  though  it  was  not 
well  developed.  He  knew  the  New  England  country 
folk,  but  mainly  as  the  country-bred  journalist  and 
politician  would  know  them ;  he  would  have  dragged 
them  after  him  into  the  upper  world  of  enlighten 
ment  ;  he  could  not  have  conceived  of  abandoning 
himself  completely  to  their  illiteracy,  to  their  crude 
religious  feeling,  or  entire  lack  of  it,  to  their  preoc 
cupation  with  the  physical  toil  and  physical  joy  of 
life. 

But  Whitman  was  a  genuine  democrat.  America 
was  the  great  democracy,  the  land  of  the  great  mass. 
With  titanic  optimism  he  believed  that  the  hope  of 
humanity  lay  in  these  uneducated,  illiterate  hordes. 
Here  dwelt  inexhaustible  energy ;  here  the  great  vital 


48  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

force  of  humanity  was  blindly  forcing  onwards.  Here 
there  was  no  distinction  of  rank  or  race,  all  was  equal 
ity;  here  chiefly,  rather  than  in  the  world  of  the 
minority,  was  Nature  working  out  her  great  and  mys 
terious  plans.  It  was  the  dream  of  Rousseau  and  the 
French  Revolution,  of  Jefferson  and  Jackson  and  of 
Lincoln,  —  an  ideal  perhaps  doomed  to  be  shattered, 
but  held  by  Whitman  in  its  fullest  and  purest  form. 
It  was  this  America  that  he  was  to  set  forth  in  his 
poems :  — 

4 'After  years  of  those  aims  and  pursuits,  I  found  myself  re 
maining  possess'd,  at  the  age  of  thirty-one  to  thirty-three,  with 
a  special  desire  and  conviction.  Or  rather,  to  be  quite  exact, 
a  desire  that  had  been  flitting  through  my  previous  life,  or 
hovering  on  the  flanks,  mostly  indefinite  hitherto,  had  steadily  ad 
vanced  to  the  front,  denned  itself,  and  finally  dominated  every 
thing  else.  This  was  a  feeling  or  ambition  to  articulate  and 
faithfully  express  in  literary  or  poetic  form,  and  uncompromis 
ingly,  my  own  physical,  emotional,  moral,  intellectual,  and 
sesthetic  Personality,  in  the  midst  of,  and  tallying,  the  momen 
tous  spirit  and  facts  of  its  immediate  days,  and  of  current 
America  —  and  to  exploit  that  Personality,  identified  with 
place  and  date,  in  a  far  more  candid  and  comprehensive  sense 
than  any  hitherto  poem  or  book." 

In  brief,  here  was  the  rarest  phenomenon  in  all 
modern  literature.  Other  artisans,  and  sons  of  arti 
sans,  had  reached  self-expression,  but  only  on  step 
ping-stones  of  their  dead  selves,  by  forfeiting  their 
birthright,  by  transforming  themselves  into  members 
of  the  few.  But  here  was  one  of  the  many,  who  had 
found  not  only  self-expression  but  a  new  medium  of 
expression ;  who  became  articulate  without  surrender 
ing  his  personality  and  his  membership  in  his  class. 
And,  most  fortunate  of  all  for  humanity,  this  indi- 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  49 

vidual  chanced  to  be  he  whose  whole  education  had 
lain  in  his  love  of  the  many,  in  long  association  with 
them  and  study  of  them.  That  very  man  of  the 
people  who  knew  most  of  the  people  had  found  his 
tongue,  and  was  determined  to  speak  of  what  life 
meant  to  him  as  an  embodiment  of  the  many,  without 
reference  to  what  had  been  written  by  the  few.  For 
the  first  time  in  our  modern  centuries  a  poet  had  been 
born  of  the  people  who  was  not  a  renegade.  Demos 
had  found  its  voice. 

Whitman's  special  quality  is  not  sufficiently  differ 
entiated  from  that  of  his  brother  poets,  however,  by 
either  or  both  of  the  preceding  considerations.  If  the 
new  form  and  the  new  matter  alone  were  the  active 
forces,  the  resultant  would  have  been  far  different  — 
perhaps  more  serviceable  to  humanity,  perhaps  less, 
but  certainly  different.  We  can,  for  example,  con 
ceive  of  a  less  ascetic  Whittier,  or  a  Euskin  without 
his  medievalism,  as  finding  a  new  rhythm  and  apply 
ing  it  to  the  poetry  of  democracy.  In  either  case  we 
should  have  had  a  clearer,  more  easily  intelligible 
verse,  conveying  more  definite  ideas.  Whitman's 
crowning  characteristic  was  that  his  poetry  of  democ 
racy  sprang,  not  from  well-defined  intellectual  con 
cepts,  but  from  an  extraordinary  mood,  from  an 
intense  and  peculiar  emotion. 

Recent  progress  in  psychology  and  medicine  has 
prepared  us  for  a  closer  understanding  of  those  un 
usual  individuals  whom  we  call  mystics  or  saints  or 
seers  or  prophets.  It  matters  little  whether  we  re 
gard  such  men  as  wise  or  foolish,  as  false  prophets  or 
true:  their  psychological  history  is  much  the  same. 


60  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

The  minds  of  certain  men  are  so  constructed  that  they 
may  at  times  seem  to  pass  beyond  themselves  and  the 
pressing  actualities  of  life  into  a  state  of  ecstatic  con 
templation,  in  which  the  whole  universe  is  apparently 
revealed  to  their  eyes  under  a  new  and  glorious  aspect, 
in  the  light  of  which  they  thereafter  live  and  act. 
Such  men  are  usually  neurotic  or  hysterical,  and 
attempts  have  recently  been  made  to  find  in  Whitman 
the  signs  of  actual  degeneracy,  but  only  in  the  spirit 
of  controversy  and  without  any  basis  in  fact.  Whit 
man's  family  history,  however,  shows  certain  ab 
normalities  :  his  eldest  brother  died  insane,  his 
youngest  brother  was  an  imbecile ;  and  it  may  be  that 
he  inherited  an  abnormal  or  perhaps  rather  super 
normal  nervous  and  emotional  activity.  One  or  two 
anecdotes  of  intense  susceptibility  to  fright  in  his 
boyhood,  his  mother's  remark  that  he  was  a  very 
strange  child,  his  own  that  his  early  life  was  singu 
larly  unhappy,  and  the  strange  revelation  of  his 
childish  emotion  contained  in  the  poem  Out  of  the 
Cradle  endlessly  Rocking,  may  perhaps  help  to  sub 
stantiate  such  an  hypothesis.  At  all  events  we  have 
the  plain  fact  before  us  that  on  no  other  basis  can  his 
poetic  method  be  fully  explained  than  by  regarding  it 
as  in  large  part  the  product  of  that  extraordinary 
mental  condition  which  we  associate  with  the  mystic. 
That  Whitman  must  be  considered  as  a  mystic 
becomes  immediately  apparent  when  one  examines  the 
writings  of  mystics  —  Oriental  or  Occidental,  medi 
aeval  or  modern.  All  show  the  characteristics  which 
Professor  William  James  has  formulated  so  precisely. 
The  mystic  has  the  sense  of  special  knowledge.  In 
his  mood,  in  his  vision,  he  sees  —  he  knows  not  how  — 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND  POET   (1850-1860)  51 

the  greater  scheme  of  creation  and  his  own  relation  to 
it;  but  this  knowledge  is  ineffable:  it  cannot  be 
uttered;  it  may  only  be  adumbrated  or  symbolized. 
It  is,  moreover,  a  knowledge  that  brings  peace  and 
joy.  The  light  breaks  in  upon  and  pervades  the 
mystic.  The  whole  universe  opens  before  him.  He 
sees  all  and  is  all.  There  is  no  beginning  or  end 
to  what  he  sees;  cause  and  effect  are  identical;  the 
spirit  of  the  universe  is  one,  and  that  spirit  is  love. 
Dr.  Bucke,  Whitman's  first  biographer,  a  physician 
and  alienist  of  some  repute,  and  the  first  to  see  that 
Whitman,  scientifically  speaking,  belongs  to  this  class, 
calls  this  state  of  feeling  cosmic  consciousness,  and 
declares  that  few  of  our  race  and  time  have  entered 
into  it,  but  that  it  is  the  highest  step  in  the  same  slow 
evolution  that  ripened  the  impersonal  consciousness  of 
the  animal  into  the  self-conscious  spirit  of  man.  So 
huge  a  generalization  may  well  stagger  the  cautious 
critic,  but  it  serves  to  indicate  the  nature  and  extent 
of  the  mystic's  experience. 

Mystic  experience  is  more  familiar  in  the  Orient 
than  in  the  Occident  and  is  most  often  produced  by 
long  and  solitary  meditation,  in  which  the  attention  is 
intently  fixed  on  a  single  object  until  the  sense  of  self 
hood  broadens  enormously  and  the  spirit  seems  sud 
denly  to  cross  the  threshold  of  nature,  and  the  finite 
self  to  rejoin  the  soul  of  the  universe.  But  a  little 
investigation  shows  it  to  be  more  common  among 
men  of  letters  in  recent  years  than  would  be  at  first 
imagined.  Lowell  had  ecstatic  experiences  in  which 
he  received  revelations ;  Symonds  was  subject  to 
recurrences  of  an  extreme  state  of  mystical  conscious 
ness;  and  Tennyson  passed  at  times  into  a  sort  of 


52  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

waking  trance.  "  This,"  he  said,  "  has  come  upon  me 
through  repeating  my  own  name  to  myself  silently, 
till  all  at  once,  as  it  were  out  of  the  intensity  of  the 
consciousness  of  individuality,  individuality  itself 
seemed  to  dissolve  and  fade  away  into  boundless 
being,  and  this  not  a  confused  state  but  the  clearest, 
the  surest  of  the  surest,  utterly  beyond  words."  And 
again,  "  By  God  Almighty  !  there  is  no  delusion  in  the 
matter !  It  is  no  nebulous  ecstasy,  but  a  state  of  tran 
scendent  wonder  associated  with  absolute  clearness  of 
mind." 

Dr.  Bucke  thinks  that  he  can  in  the  Leaves  of  Grass 
identify  the  traces  of  Whitman's  first  remarkable 
mystic  experience  in  the  passage:  — 

"I  believe  in  you,  my  soul,  the  other  I  am  must  not  abase  itself 

to  you, 

And  you  must  not  be  abased  to  the  other. 
Loaf  with  me  on  the  grass,  loose  the  stop  from  your  throat, 
Not  words,  not  music  or  rhyme  I  want,  not  custom  or  lecture, 

not  even  the  best, 

Only  the  lull  I  like,  the  hum  of  your  valved  voice. 
I  mind  how  once  we  lay  such  a  transparent  summer  morning, 
How  you  settled  your  head  athwart  my  hips  and  gently 

turned  over  upon  me, 
And  parted  the  shirt  from  my  bosom-bone,  and  plunged  your 

tongue  to  my  bare-stript  heart, 
And  reach'd  till  you  felt  my  beard,  and  reach'd  till  you  held 

my  feet. 
Swiftly  arose  and  spread  around  me  the  peace  and  knowledge 

that  pass  all  the  argument  of  the  earth, 

And  I  know  that  the  hand  of  God  is  the  promise  of  my  own, 
And  I  know  that  the  spirit  of  God  is  the  brother  of  my  own, 
And  that  all  the  men  ever  born  are  also  my  brothers,  and  the 

women  my  sisters  and  lovers, 
And  that  a  kelson  of  the  creation  is  love, 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  53 

And  limitless  are  leaves  stiff  or  drooping  in  the  fields, 
And  brown  ants  in  the  little  wells  beneath  them, 
And  mossy  scabs  of  the  worm  fence,  heap'd  stones,  elder, 
mullein  and  poke-weed." 

In  other  passages  of  his  verse,  and  not  infrequently 
in  his  prose  articles  and  memoranda,  Whitman  ex 
presses  what  Professor  James  calls  his  "chronic 
mystical  perception."  "  There  is,"  he  wrote  in  later 
years,  "  apart  from  mere  intellect,  in  the  make-np  of 
every  superior  human  identity,  (in  its  moral  complete 
ness,  considered  as  ensemble,  not  for  that  moral  alone, 
but  for  the  whole  being,  including  physique,)  a  won 
drous  something  that  realizes  without  argument,  fre 
quently  without  what  is  called  education  (though  I 
think  it  the  goal  and  apex  of  all  education  deserving 
the  name)  —  an  intuition  of  the  absolute  balance,  in 
time  and  space,  of  the  whole  of  this  multifarious,  mad 
chaos  of  fraud,  frivolity,  hoggishness  —  this  revel  of 
fools,  and  incredible  make-believe  and  general  unset- 
tledness,  we  call  the  world;  a  soul-sight  of  that  divine 
clue  and  unseen  thread  which  holds  the  whole  con 
geries  of  things,  all  history  and  time,  and  all  events, 
however  trivial,  however  momentous,  like  a  leash'd 
dog  in  the  hand  of  the  hunter." 

We  find  also  frequent  records  of  the  more  acute 
phases  of  the  mystical  state  :  — 

"The  thought  of  identity  .  .  .  Miracle  of  miracles,  beyond 
statement,  most  spiritual  and  vaguest  of  earth's  dreams,  yet 
hardest  basic  fact,  and  only  entrance  to  all  facts.  In  such 
devout  hours,  in  the  midst  of  the  significant  wonders  of  heaven 
and  earth  (significant  only  because  of  the  Me  in  the  centre), 
creeds,  conventions,  fall  away  and  become  of  no  account  before 
this  simple  idea.  Under  the  luminoushess  of  real  vision,  it 


54  WALT    WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

alone  takes  possession,  takes  value.  Like  the  shadowy  dwarf 
in  the  fable,  once  liberated  and  looked  upon,  it  expands  over 
the  whole  Earth  and  spreads  to  the  roof  of  heaven." 

"Lo!  Nature  (the  only  complete,  actual  poem)  existing 
calmly  in  the  divine  scheme,  containing  all,  content,  careless 
of  the  criticisms  of  a  day,  or  these  endless  and  wordy  chatter 
ers.  And  lo !  to  the  consciousness  of  the  soul,  the  permanent 
identity,  the  thought,  the  something,  before  [which]  the  magni 
tude  even  of  Democracy,  art,  literature,  etc.,  dwindles,  becomes 
partial,  measurable  —  something  that  fully  satisfies  (which  those 
do  not).  That  something  is  the  All  and  the  idea  of  All,  with 
the  accompanying  idea  of  eternity,  and  of  itself,  the  soul,  buoy 
ant,  indestructible,  sailing  Space  forever,  visiting  every  region, 
as  a  ship  the  sea.  And  again  lo !  the  pulsations  in  all  matter, 
all  spirit,  throbbing  forever  —  the  eternal  beats,  eternal  systole 
and  diastole  of  life  in  things  —  wheref rom  I  feel  and  know  that 
death  is  not  the  ending,  as  was  thought,  but  rather  the  real 
beginning  —  and  that  nothing  ever  is  or  can  be  lost,  nor  ever 
die,  nor  soul,  nor  matter." 

The  Oriental  mystics  have  denned  the  various  steps 
by  which,  in  increasing  gradations  of  self-hypnotiza- 
tion,  they  reach  the  mood  they  deliberately  seek ;  and 
modern  physiological  psychology  has  accounted  for 
the  phenomenon,  and  shown  how  "the  vanishing  of 
the  sense  of  self,  and  the  feeling  of  immediate  unity 
with  the  object,  is  due  to  the  disappearance,  in  these 
rapturous  experiences,  of  the  motor  adjustments  which 
habitually  mediate  between  the  constant  background 
of  consciousness  (which  is  the  Self)  and  the  object  in 
the  foreground,  whatever  it  may  be."  If  one  may 
hazard  an  hypothesis  drawn  from  many  details  in 
Whitman's  verse  and  fragmentary  notes,  we  may 
suppose  that  in  his  case  the  mystic  experience  did 
not  come,  as  with  Tennyson,  entirely  from  a  complete 
absorption  in  self,  brought  about  by  the  prolonged 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  55 

reiteration  of  a  word.  The  habit  of  muscular  repose, 
the  complete  motor  quiescence  which  was  so  charac 
teristic  of  him  from  his  boyhood  up,  afforded  the 
physical  basis.  In  this  state  of  rapt  contemplation 
the  mind,  rather  drawn  out  of  itself  than  concen 
trated  within  itself,  dwelt  in  rapid  succession  upon 
a  multitude  of  outward  objects,  until,  under  this  swift 
and  dionysiac  sequence  of  parallel,  unrelated  percepts, 
there  followed  the  mystic  experience,  the  illusion  or 
the  verity,  of  knowledge  of  the  Whole.  The  most 
marked  characteristic  of  Whitman's  poetic  method, 
that  by  which  he  catalogues  or  inventories  objects, 
without  close  subordination  or  orderly  classification, 
is  perhaps  but  the  same  process  on  a  smaller  scale. 
The  reader's  attention  reels  under  the  weight  of  un 
related  particulars  until,  just  as  the  mind  refuses  to  go 
further  in  the  hopeless  task  of  coordination,  it  is  sud 
denly  suffused,  as  it  were,  with  a  glow  of  comprehen 
sion,  and  there  is  born  an  impression  of  totality. 

We  may  feel  sure,  then,  that  Whitman  was  a  mys 
tic,  and  that  he  discovered,  in  those  months  and  years 
of  meditation  that  preceded  the  appearance  of  the 
Leaves  of  Grass,  his  own  means  of  freeing  himself 
from  the  outward  and  understandable  world  and  of 
precipitating  himself  into  the  mood  of  ecstasy.  Its 
characteristics  were  two.  First,  the  universe  appeared 
one :  all  things  revealed  themselves  to  him  simultane 
ously,  as  it  were,  and  on  the  same  plane,  as  if  space 
and  time  had  been  annihilated.  Second,  the  law  of 
this  world  was  love.  Rank  and  order  vanished ;  the 
lowest  and  the  highest  were  equal ;  all  were  to  be 
comprehended  only  by  affection.  In  the  light  of  this 
ecstasy,  now  brightening,  now  growing  dim,  he  was 


56  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

to  walk  for  the  remainder  of  his  days ;  henceforward 
he  was  the  poet  of  the  vision,  —  the  vision  of  the 
world  as  love. 

It  was  early  in  1855  that  Whitman  laid  down  his 
tools  and  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  his  book. 
Five  times  had  it  been  written  and  rewritten,  and  he 
even  began  to  set  it  up  with  his  own  hands,  in  a  little 
printing  shop  in  Brooklyn.  In  July  it  appeared.  It 
was  a  tall,  thin  quarto  of  some  ninety  broad  pages, 
bound  in  green  cloth,  ornamented  with  flowers.  The 
copyright  was  secured  by  Walt  Whitman,  but  the  title- 
page  did  not  bear  his  name,  and  no  publishing  house 
was  indicated.  It  was  advertised  as  for  sale  at  Fowler 
&  Wells7  Phrenological  Depot  in  New  York  and  at  a 
Brooklyn  bookstore.  The  price  was  at  first  two  dol 
lars,  afterwards  one  dollar.  Opposite  the  title-page 
was  a  steel  engraving  of  the  now  familiar  daguerreo 
type  representing  Whitman  as  a  workingman. 

The  preface,  ten  pages  long  in  double  columns,  was  a 
rhapsody  on  the  poet's  function  in  America.  In  form 
it  was  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  the  less  rhyth 
mical  parts  of  his  verse,  and  in  a  later  edition  he 
drew  freely  from  it  while  composing  On  Blue  Ontario's 
Shores.  It  was  not  at  all  intelligible  to  the  ordinary 
reader,  and  that  fact  doubtless  added  to  the  perplexity 
with  which  people  naturally  regarded  the  novel  poems 
that  followed. 

These  were  twelve  in  number  and  bore  no  titles.1 

1  Later  they  were  called  :  Song  of  Myself  ;  A  Song  for  Occupa 
tions  ;  To  Think  of  Time;  The  Sleepers  ;  I  Sing  the  Body  Electric ; 
Faces;  Song  of  the  Answerer;  Europe;  A  Boston  Ballad;  A 
Child  Went  Forth;  Who  Learns  my  Lesson;  Great  are  the  Myths. 


in.]  WORKMAN   AND  POET    (1850-1860)  57 

The  first  was  the  long  Poem  of  Walt  Whitman,  an 
American,  as  it  was  called  in  the  second  edition,  or 
The  Song  of  Myself,  as  it  was  later  entitled.  Hard 
to  follow  at  first  and  in  spots  virtually  unintelligible, 
it  becomes  clear  when  one  directs  his  attention  to  the 
general  movement  of  the  thought. 

The  author  is  but  a  type,  so  runs  the  theory ;  what 
he  says  of  himself  he  says  of  mankind.  His  theme 
is  the  mood  of  ecstasy  and  understanding,  which  he 
reaches  through  the  contemplation  of  nature.  Would 
you  have  the  secret  ?  You  may,  if  you  will ;  but  you 
must  seize  it  instantaneously,  as  a  whole,  not  derive  it 
by  logical  steps.  The  secret  is  that  man  and  the  world 
are  good,  are  clean  and  holy,  are  to  be  accepted  with 
joy  and  trustfully.  Separate  your  contemplative  self, 
as  I  do,  from  your  active,  ordinary  self:  thus  will 
illumination  come  to  you.  Let  grass  be  the  subject 
of  your  thought.  What  is  it  ?  What  does  it  mean  ? 
One  might  quaintly  guess  it  to  be  a  part  of  God's  ves 
ture, —  his  handkerchief,  designedly  dropped  to  pro 
voke  curiosity,  and  "bearing  the  owner's  name  some  way 
in  the  corners  ";  or  as  a  symbol  of  Nature's  uniformity, 
her  equal  proffer  to  all  men ;  or  as  the  symbol  of  all 
that  has  gone  before  us —  "the  beautiful  uncut  hair 
of  graves."  But  it  is  most  typical  of  the  ceaselessly 
evolving  universe,  working  out  its  gigantic  law  of 
transmutation. 

That  law  is  love.  The  universe  means  well  by  us. 
I  am  a  better  type  than  the  insentient  grass, —  I,  the 
momentary  symbol  of  conscious  humanity,  for  I  see 
and  am  all  forms  of  that  pervasive  spirit.  And  here 
follows  a  magnificent  catalogue  of  instances  that 
symbolize  the  infinitude  of  human  experience,  in- 


58  WALT    WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

eluding  even  the  beasts,  none  of  whom  are  un 
worthy  :  — 

"  I  do  not  call  the  tortoise  unworthy  because  she  is  not  some 
thing  else  ; 

And  the  jay  in  the  woods  never  studied  the  gamut,  yet  trills 
pretty  well  to  me  ; 

And  the  look  of  the  bay  mare  shames  silliness  out  of  me." 

Man,  then,  —  actual,  existing  man,  —  "hankering, 
gross,  mystical,  nude,"  is  the  great  type,  the  great 
reality.  Man  is  deathless,  august ;  he  is  himself  of  the 
very  essence  of  being.  He  must  then  venerate  himself, 
rather  than  the  gods.  It  follows,  then,  that  virtue 
and  vice  are,  sub  specie  eternitatis,  foolish  words.  Each 
plays  its  part  in  Nature's  dualism :  — 

"  What  blurt  is  this  about  virtue  and  about  vice  ? 
Evil  propels  me,  and  reform  of  evil  propels  me,  I  stand  indif 
ferent." 

The  universe  holds  its  steady  progress :  shall  man  fear 
the  outcome  or  dare  to  distinguish  between  God's  in 
struments  ? 

"  Did  you  fear  some  scrofula  out  of  the  unflagging  pregnancy? 
Did  you  guess  the  celestial  laws  are  yet  to  be  work'd  over 
and  rectified  ?" 

Similarly,  in  man  there  can  be  no  degradation  or  dis 
tinction  :  — 

"  I  speak  the  pass- word  primeval,  I  give  the  sign  of  democracy  ; 
By  God  !  I  will  accept  nothing  which  all  cannot  have  their 
counterpart  of  on  the  same  terms." 

And  as  man  is  divine  only  as  a  perennial  element  in 
Nature,  he  is  divine  by  virtue  of  his  power  of  self-con 
tinuation,  by  virtue,  that  is,  of  his  power  of  propaga- 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET   (1850-1860)  69 

tion.  Hence,  man's  function  of  propagation  and  its 
instruments  are,  from  that  point  of  view,  essential  and 
noble. 

Again  he  rushes  into  tumultuous  inventory  of  mul 
titudinous  aspects  and  instances  of  life,  contemplat 
ing  with  ecstasy  all  the  works  of  Nature,  heroes  and 
martyrs  of  all  ages,  man  in  his  most  ordinary  or  most 
picturesque  occupations,  even  plants  and  beasts,  —  the 
running  blackberry  vine  that  "  would  adorn  the  parlors 
of  heaven  " ;  the  animals  that  are  "  so  placid  and  self- 
contained  "  :  — 

"  They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition, 
They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins, 
They  do  not  make  ine  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God, 
Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania 

of  owning  things, 
Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thousands 

of  years  ago, 
Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over  the  whole  earth." 

All  life,  then,  he  loves,  and  in  a  wonderful  passage 
he  announces  himself,  in  his  typical  aspect,  as  the 
lover  of  the  earth :  — 

"  I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night, 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 

"  Press  close,  bare-bosom' d  night !  Press  close,  magnetic,  nour 
ishing  night ! 

Night  of  south  winds  —  night  of  the  large  few  stars  1 
Still,  nodding  night — mad,  naked,  summer  night. 

"  Smile,  0  voluptuous,  cool-breath'd  earth  ! 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  ! 
Earth  of  departed  sunset  —  earth  of  the  mountains  misty-topt  I 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with 
blue! 


60  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river  ! 
Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  brighter  and  clearer  for  my 

sake ! 

Far-swooping  elbow' d  earth — rich,  apple-blossom' d  earth  ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes  ! 

"Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love  —  therefore  I  to  you  give 
love  ! 

0  unspeakable,  passionate  love  !  " 

Nay,  more.  So  strongly  does  he  feel  this  transcending 
vitality  which  is  his  through  his  secret,  that  he  would 
share  it  with  the  weak  and  fainting  spirit :  — 

*'  O  despairer,  here  is  my  neck  ; 

By  God  !  you  shall  not  go  down  !     Hang  your  whole  weight 
upon  me. 

"  I  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath,  I  buoy  you  up  ; 
Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  arm'd  force, 
Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves. 

* '  Sleep  —  I  and  they  keep  guard  all  night ; 
Not  doubt,  not  decease  shall  dare  to  lay  finger  upon  you  ; 

1  have  embraced  you,  and  henceforth  possess  you  to  myself, 
And  when  you  rise  in  the  morning  you  will  find  what  I  tell 

you  is  so." 

Such  in  the  barest  outline  is  Whitman's  famous 
doctrine,  not  without  its  analogies  to  the  idealism  of 
his  predecessors,  particularly  Emerson.  The  succeed 
ing  poems  reinforced  and  completed  it  without  adding 
new  elements ;  but  he  kept  recurring  to  a  thought  that 
then  obtruded  itself  continually  upon  him,  that  the 
strength  and  weakness  of  the  never-ending  chain  of 
life  lay  always  in  the  present  link.  Each  generation 
must  be  strong  and  noble,  and  this  means  the  strength 
and  nobility  of  man's  body  and  woman's  body.  To 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  61 

this  physical  basis  of  the  continuation  of  the  race  he 
comes  back  again  and  again  with  joyful  insistence,  for 
men  and  women  are  the  ultimate  realities  of  life;  all 
governments  and  all  religions,  all  happiness  and  all 
progress,  depend  upon  their  union. 

About  eight  hundred  copies  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass 
were  printed,  a  sufficient  quantity  deposited  for  sale 
with  dealers  in  New  York,  Brooklyn,  and  Boston,  and 
a  considerable  number  sent  out  for  review  and  to  well- 
known  writers.  Commercially,  the  enterprise  was  a 
complete  failure.  Very  few  copies  were  sold,  and  the 
great  bulk  of  the  edition  remained  on  the  author's 
hands.  This  is  not  greatly  to  be  wondered  at.  The 
public  at  large  cares  little  for  poetry,  and  particularly  for 
poetry  of  a  novel  kind.  Whitman's  name  was  virtu 
ally  unknown,  and  any  ordinary  reader  who  saw  the 
volume  must  have  been  puzzled  by  the  odd  form,  be 
wildered  by  the  thought,  and  quite  probably  shocked 
by  the  apparently  materialistic  and  anti-religious  tone. 
Whitman's  own  family,  unaccustomed  to  reading,  could 
make  nothing  of  it.  "I  saw  the  book,"  his  brother 
George  said  in  later  years,  —  "I  didn't  read  it  at  all  — 
didn't  think  it  worth  reading — fingered  it  a  little. 
Mother  thought  as  I  did  —  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  it.  ...  I  remember  mother  comparing  Hiawatha 
[which  came  out  the  same  year]  to  Walt's,  and  the  one 
seemed  to  us  pretty  much  the  same  muddle  as  the  other. 
Mother  said  that  if  Hiawatha  was  poetry,  perhaps 
Walt's  was." 

Whitman  could  not  have  been  greatly  surprised  at 
the  indifference  shown  to  his  poems  by  those  who  were 
indifferent  to  all  poetry  But  he  must  have  been  be 
wildered  and  disheartened  by  the  indifference  and 


62  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

hostility  of  critics  and  men  of  letters.  The  former, 
almost  with  one  accord,  anathematized  the  volume  and 
the  author.  It  was  "muck"  and  "obscenity"  "full  of 
bombast,  egotism,  vulgarity,  and  nonsense";  he  was  a 
"lunatic" ;  he  was  "as  unacquainted  with  art  as  a  hog 
is  with  mathematics";  he  "deserved  the  whip  of  the 
public  executioner."  His  brother  poets,  as  a  rule,  ig 
nored  the  book,  or  destroyed  it,  —  as  did  Whittier,  — 
or  returned  it  to  the  author.  This  indifference  of  the 
intelligent  or  expert  public  was,  we  may  guess,  due  to 
much  the  same  causes  as  that  of  the  illiterate  public. 
To  be  sure,  they  were  familiar  with  Whitman's  tran 
scendental  ideas,  as  expressed  in  Emerson  or  Carlyle ; 
but  their  familiarity  was  with  mysticism  expounded  in 
a  more  or  less  logical  fashion,  not  with  the  mystic's 
own  natural  utterance.  Their  ears,  too,  were  ill  attuned 
to  the  new  form,  and  they  were  also  repelled  by  the 
glorification  of  the  common  man,  of  the  very  dust  at 
their  feet. 

A  still  greater  stumbling-block  to  the  poet  and 
reader  of  poetry  at  that  day  were  the  intensity  and 
particularity  of  Whitman's  reference  to  sexual  rela 
tions.  American  life  half  a  century  ago  is  unani 
mously  declared  to  have  been  prudish ;  but  even  if  it 
had  been  as  daring  as  it  was  timid,  it  might  well 
have  been  aghast  at  the  full  tone  of  sensuous  exalta 
tion,  of  phallic  frenzy,  that  sounded  throughout  these 
poems,  finding  expression  everywhere  in  sexual  im 
agery.  Thoreau  thought  that  the  beasts  might  have 
so  spoken.  From  our  calmer  vantage  ground  of  half 
a  century  later  we  can  see  that  he  missed  the  point. 
No  speaking  beasts  could  have  been  so  teleological  j 
it  was  rather  man  speaking  boldly  of  his  essential  de- 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND  POET   (1850-1860)  63 

lights  because  he  saw  them  essential  to  him  and  to 
the  race.  The  discussion  has  now  grown  formal 
and  academic,  and  whether  these  matters  are,  in  the 
hands  of  a  great  poet,  tacenda,  or  whether  the  intense 
and  lasting  emotional  life  that  clusters  around  the 
congress  of  man  and  woman  must  remain  always 
unexpressed  in  art,  is  a  matter  of  cautious  doubt. 
One  thing  is  clear,  however,  that  Whitman  was  never 
licentious  or  obscene;  no  attentive  reader  could  now 
so  accuse  him.  But  at  that  time,  and  for  some  years 
to  come,  the  issue  of  propriety  was  constantly  raised.1 

1  It  is  necessary  to  add  that  the  exuberance  of  sexual  im 
agery  in  Whitman's  work  may  quite  possibly  have  been  due  to 
a  change  in  his  habits  of  life.  As  a  young  man,  all  testimony 
concurs  to  show  him  to  have  been  chaste.  His  first  biographer, 
however,  Mr.  Burroughs,  speaking  of  the  period  1840-1855,  said 
that  Whitman  "  sounded  all  experiences  of  life,  with  all  their 
passions,  pleasures,  and  abandonments."  In  1893,  moreover, 
Whitman  himself,  writing  to  John  Addington  Symonds,  plainly 
stated  that  "  my  life,  young  manhood,  mid-age,  times  South, 
etc.,  have  been  jolly  bodily,  and  doubtless  open  to  criticism. 
Tho'  unmarried,  I  have  had  six  children  —  two  are  dead  —  one 
living  Southern  grandchild,  fine  boy,  writes  to  me  occasionally 
—  circumstances  (connected  with  their  fortune  and  benefit) 
have  separated  me  from  intimate  relations."  The  later  portion 
of  the  passage,  taken  together  with  the  tone  of  his  verse,  seems 
to  me  probably  to  indicate  that,  though  Whitman  may  have 
been  caught  in  the  net  of  accidental  passion,  his  affections  had 
centred  on  one  or  perhaps  two  women,  with  whom  he  had 
relations  lasting  for  a  considerable  number  of  years,  and  whom 
he  may  be  regarded  as  having  married  in  all  but  the  name.  In 
later  life,  Whitman  was  averse  to  mentioning  the  subject,  even 
to  his  most  intimate  friends,  and  no  further  facts  are  known. 
At  one  time  he  intended  to  make  a  careful  statement  with 
regard  to  the  matter,  to  be  kept  sealed,  and  to  be  used  by  his 
representatives,  in  case  of  need,  for  the  protection  of  those  dear 


64  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  a  few  critics  suffi 
ciently  clear-headed  and  broad-minded  to  see  the 
essential  greatness  of  the  book  in  spite  of  its  peculi 
arities.  In  an  unsigned  notice  in  the  North  American 
Review,  Edward  Everett  Hale  recognized  "  the  fresh 
ness,  simplicity,  and  reality  of  the  book,"  and  "the 
wonderful  sharpness  and  distinctness  "  of  the  author's 
imagination,  declaring,  too,  that  there  is  not  a  word  in 
the  volume  "  meant  to  attract  readers  by  its  gross- 
ness."  W.  J.  Stillman,  in  the  Crayon,  while  denying 
to  it  ideality,  concentration,  and  purpose,  bore  witness 
to  the  "  wonderful  vigour  of  thought  and  intensity  of 
purpose."  In  Putnam's  Monthly  an  unknown  reviewer 
was  keen  enough  to  see  that  in  its  large  aspects  this 
was  nothing  but  Emerson  put  into  practice,  the  formal 
gospel  of  the  New  England  school  corning  fresh  from 
the  lips  of  the  people.  "  A  fireman  or  omnibus  driver, 
who  had  intelligence  enough  to  absorb  the  speculations 
of  that  school  of  thought  which  culminated  at  Boston 
some  fifteen  or  eighteen  years  ago,  and  resources  of 
expression  to  put  them  forth  again  in  a  form  of  his 
own,  with  sufficient  self-conceit  and  contempt  for  pub 
lic  taste  to  affront  all  usual  propriety  of  diction,  might 
have  written  this  gross  yet  elevated,  this  superficial 
yet  profound,  this  preposterous  yet  somehow  fasci 
nating  book."  And  in  England  a  writer  in  the  Leader 
wrote  the  following  excellent  statement  —  he  is  often 
wiser  who  views  from  afar  —  of  the  "  staggering " 
central  principle  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass  :  — 

to  him ;  but  this  was  never  done.  We  know  (and  wish  to 
know)  nothing  more  than  that  he  had  at  times  been  lured  by 
the  pleasures  of  the  flesh,  like  many  a  poet  before  him,  and 
that  he  had  known  the  deep  and  abiding  love  of  woman. 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET   (1850-1860)  65 

"  It  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  an  all-attracting  egotism  — 
an  eternal  presence  of  the  individual  soul  of  Walt  Whitman 
in  all  things,  yet  in  such  wise  that  this  one  soul  shall  be  pre 
sented  as  a  type  of  all  human  souls  whatsoever.  He  goes  forth 
into  the  world,  this  rough,  devil-may-care  Yankee  ;  passionately 
identifies  himself  with  all  forms  of  being,  sentient  or  inanimate  ; 
sympathizes  deeply  with  humanity ;  riots  with  a  kind  of  Bac 
chanal  fury  in  the  force  and  fervour  of  his  own  sensations  ; 
will  not  have  the  most  vicious  or  abandoned  shut  out  from 
final  comfort  and  reconciliation;  is  delighted  with  Broadway, 
New  York,  and  equally  in  love  with  the  desolate  backwoods, 
and  the  long  stretch  of  the  uninhabited  prairie,  where  the  wild 
beasts  wallow  in  the  weeds,  and  the  wilder  birds  start  upward 
from  their  nests  among  the  grass  ;  perceives  a  divine  mystery 
wherever  his  feet  conduct,  or  his  thoughts  transport  him  ;  and 
beholds  all  things  tending  toward  the  central  and  sovereign 
Me." 

Best  of  all,  Emerson  himself,  Whitman's  sole  master 
and  exemplar,  —  so  far  as  he  may  be  said  to  have  had 
one  at  all,  —  recognized  at  once  the  extraordinary 
merit  of  the  volume,  and  promptly  wrote  him  as 
follows  :  — 

CONCORD,  MASS'TTS,  21  JULY,  1855. 

"  DEAR  SIR,  I  am  not  blind  to  the  worth  of  the  wonderful 
gift  of  'Leaves  of  Grass.'  I  find  it  the  most  extraordinary 
piece  of  wit  and  wisdom  that  America  has  yet  contributed.  I 
am  very  happy  in  reading  it,  as  great  power  makes  us  happy. 
It  meets  the  demand  I  am  always  making  of  what  seemed  the 
sterile  and  stingy  Nature,  as  if  too  much  handiwork,  or  too 
much  lymph  in  the  temperament,  were  making  our  Western 
wits  fat  and  mean. 

"  I  give  you  joy  of  your  free  and  brave  thought.  I  have  great 
joy  in  it.  I  find  incomparable  things  said  incomparably  well, 
as  they  must  be.  I  find  the  courage  of  treatment  that  so  de 
lights  us,  and  which  large  perception  only  can  inspire. 

"  I  greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career,  which  yet 


66  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

must  have  had  a  long  foreground  somewhere,  for  such  a  start. 
I  rubbed  my  eyes  a  little,  to  see  if  this  sunbeam  were  no  illu 
sion  ;  but  the  solid  sense  of  the  book  is  a  sober  certainty.  It 
has  the  best  merits,  namely,  of  fortifying  and  encouraging. 

"  I  did  not  know,  until  I  last  night  saw  the  book  advertised  in 
a  newspaper,  that  I  could  trust  the  name  as  real  and  available 
for  a  post-office. 

"  I  wish  to  see  my  benefactor,  and  have  felt  much  like  strik 
ing  my  tasks  and  visiting  New  York  to  pay  you  my  respects. 

"R.  W.  EMERSON." 

Emerson  was  equally  free  in  expressing  himself  to 
others  in  favour  of  his  new-found  poet.  To  a  visitor 
at  Concord  he  said  in  the  first  flush  of  his  enthusiasm, 
Mr.  Burroughs  records,  that  "  Americans  abroad  may 
now  come  home :  unto  us  a  man  is  born."  A  little 
later,  when  he  saw  how  blind  others  were  to  the 
promise  he  saw  in  Whitman,  and  how  loud  were  the 
protests,  his  faith  in  his  own  discernment  began  to 
weaken,  and  he  wrote  to  Carlyle  half-heartedly :  — 

"  One  book,  last  summer,  came  out  in  New  York,  a  nonde 
script  monster,  which  yet  had  terrible  eyes  and  buffalo  strength, 
and  was  indisputably  American  —  which  I  thought  to  send 
you  ;  but  the  book  throve  so  badly  with  the  few  to  whom  I 
showed  it,  and  wanted  good  morals  so  much,  that  I  never  did. 
Yet  I  believe  now  again,  I  shall.  It  is  called  '  Leaves  of  Grass ' 
—  was  written  and  printed  by  a  journeyman  printer  in  Brook 
lyn,  New  York,  named  Walter  Whitman ;  and  after  you  have 
looked  into  it,  if  you  think,  as  you  may,  that  it  is  only  an 
auctioneer's  inventory  of  a  warehouse,  you  can  light  your  pipe 
with  it." 

In  the  meantime  Whitman  had  not  been  willing  to 
leave  his  precious  volume  to  the  uninstructed  mercy 
of  the  public  jury.  He  was  more  than  a  poet,  we  must 
remember :  he  stood  for  a  novel  theory  of  composition, 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET   (1850-1860)  67 

for  a  new  attitude  towards  literature ;  he  was  a  fierce 
propagandist  for  the  rights  of  the  people  in  letters,  and 
as  such  he  was  impatient.  To  three  journals  whose 
columns  were  open  to  him,  therefore,  he  contributed 
anonymous  reviews  —  so  characteristically  worded  that 
the  disguise  must  have  been  ineffectual  to  any  one  who 
knew  him  or  his  book.  In  the  American  Phrenological 
Journal  of  Fowler  and  Wells,  at  that  time  his  agents 
and  soon  to  become  his  publishers,  he  compared  the 
Leaves  with  Tennyson's  Maud,  dwelling  bluntly  on 
the  striking  contrast  between  the  vigour,  the  self-re 
liance,  and  the  democratic  character  of  the  one,  and 
the  listlessness,  the  ennui,  the  indecision,  and  the 
aristocratic  quality  of  the  other.  In  the  United  States 
and  Democratic  Review,  to  which  he  had  in  years  past 
been  a  frequent  contributor,  he  sounded  the  call  for  an 
"  athletic  and  defiant "  native  literature,  of  which  he 
was  himself  a  symbol.  And  in  the  Brooklyn  Times, 
with  which  he  seems  at  that  period  to  have  had  some 
connection,  he  deliberately  sets  forth  his  own  merits :  — 

"  To  give  judgment  on  real  poems,  one  needs  an  account  of 
the  poet  himself.  Very  devilish  to  some,  and  very  divine  to 
some,  will  appear  the  poet  of  these  new  poems,  the  '  Leaves  of 
Grass';  an  attempt  as  they  are,  of  a  naive,  masculine,  affection 
ate,  contemplative,  sensual,  imperious  person,  to  cast  into 
literature  not  only  his  own  grit  and  arrogance,  but  his  own 
flesh  and  form,  undraped,  regardless  of  models,  regardless  of 
modesty  or  law,  and  ignorant  or  silently  scornful,  as  at  first 
appears,  of  all  except  his  own  presence  and  experience,  and  all 
outside  the  fiercely  loved  land  of  his  birth,  and  the  birth  of  his 
parents,  and  their  parents  for  several  generations  before  him. 
Politeness  this  man  has  none,  and  regulation  he  has  none.  A 
rude  child  of  the  people  !  —  No  imitation  —  no  foreigner  —  but 
a  growth  and  idiom  of  America.  No  discontented  —  a  careless 


68  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

slouch,  enjoying  to-day.  No  dilettante  democrat  —  a  man  who 
is  art-and-part  with  the  commonalty,  and  with  immediate  life  — 
loves  the  streets  —  loves  the  docks  —  loves  the  free  rasping  talk 
of  men  —  likes  to  be  called  by  his  given  name,  and  nobody  at 
all  need  Mr.  him  —  can  laugh  with  laughers  —  likes  the  ungen- 
teel  ways  of  laborers — is  not  prejudiced  one  mite  against  the 
Irish  —  talks  readily  with  them  —  talks  readily  with  niggers  — 
does  not  make  a  stand  on  being  a  gentleman,  nor  on  learning  or 
manners  —  eats  cheap  fare,  likes  the  strong  flavored  coffee  of 
the  coffee-stands  in  the  market,  at  sunrise — likes  a  supper  of 
oysters  fresh  from  the  oyster-smack  —  likes  to  make  one  at  the 
crowded  tables  among  sailors  and  work-people  —  would  leave  a 
select  soire'e  of  elegant  people  any  time  to  go  with  tumultuous 
men,  roughs,  receive  their  caresses  and  welcome,  listen  to  their 
noise,  oaths,  smut,  fluency,  laughter,  repartee  —  and  can  pre 
serve  his  presence  perfectly  among  these,  and  the  like  of  these. 
The  effects  he  produces  in  his  poems  are  no  effects  of  artists 
or  the  arts,  but  effects  of  the  original  eye  or  arm,  or  the  actual 
atmosphere,  or  tree,  or  bird.  You  may  feel  the  unconscious 
teaching  of  a  fine  brute,  but  will  never  feel  the  artificial  teach 
ing  of  a  fine  writer  or  speaker. 

"  Other  poets  celebrate  great  events,  personages,  romances, 
wars,  loves,  passions,  the  victories  and  power  of  their  country, 
or  some  real  or  imagined  incident —  and  polish  their  work  and 
come  to  conclusions,  and  satisfy  the  reader.  This  poet  cele 
brates  natural  propensities  in  himself ;  and  that  is  the  way  he 
celebrates  all.  He  comes  to  no  conclusions,  and  does  not 
satisfy  the  reader.  He  certainly  leaves  him  what  the  serpent 
left  the  woman  and  the  man,  the  taste  of  the  Paradisaic  tree  of 
the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  never  to  be  erased  again." 

The  candid  reader's  first  impression  of  these  self- 
praising  notices  is  one  of  surprise  and  perhaps  dis 
gust,  for  by  tradition  the  poet  is  wrapped  up  in  his 
art  and  careless  of  its  reception  by  the  vulgar  throng. 
But  reflection  points  to  a  more  tolerant  attitude. 
Writers  have,  unfortunately,  rarely  been  as  self-con 
tained  as  we  may  think.  Some  of  great  repute  have 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  69 

done  as  Whitman  did,  and  many  have  laboured  to  in 
fluence  the  notices  of  their  work,  regarding  favourable 
criticism  as  effective  advertising.  Log-rolling  in  litera 
ture  was  certainly  not  extinct  in  Whitman's  time,  nor 
was  his  the  only  offence,  if  offence  it  was.  And  it  must 
be  added  that  his  journalistic  experience  and  his  long 
acquaintance  with  newspapers  had  not  taught  him  to 
regard  printed  criticism  as  necessarily  impartial  in  its 
origin.  He  acted,  in  brief,  without  finesse  of  feel 
ing,  in  the  downright,  whole-hearted  way  which  was 
characteristic  of  him,  as  the  unconventionalized  man, 
as  one  of  his  "  roughs,"  would  have  acted. 

But  such  good  words  as  appeared  about  the  book 
were  lost  in  the  chorus  of  disapproval,  and  though 
Whitman  was  joyful  over  Emerson's  letter,  the  situa 
tion  was  disheartening.  He  paused  to  consider  his 
course.  "  When  the  book  aroused  such  a  storm  of 
anger  and  condemnation  everywhere,"  he  confessed  in 
later  years,  "  I  went  off  to  the  east  end  of  Long 
Island  and  Peconic  Bay.  Then  came  back  to  New 
York  with  the  confirmed  resolution,  from  which  I 
never  afterward  wavered,  to  go  on  with  my  poetic 
enterprise  in  my  own  way  and  finish  it  as  well  as  I 
could." 

In  June,  1856,  he  made  his  second  appearance  be 
fore  the  public  with  an  enlarged  edition,  a  sixteenmo 
of  nearly  four  hundred  pages.  Only  one  of  the  pre 
vious  poems  was  omitted.  The  others  were  touched 
here  and  there,  always  for  the  better,  and  twenty 
were  added.1 

1  1.  Unfolded  out  of  the  Folds;  2.  Salut  ail  Monde  ;  3. 
Song  of  the  Broadaxe  ;  4.  By  Blue  Ontario's  Shore  ;  5.  This 
Compost;  6.  To  You;  7.  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry;  8.  Song 


70  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

The  edition  showed  not  only  greater  richness  of 
poetic  power,  but  a  more  single  purpose.  The  egoistic 
note,  which  in  the  first  edition  had  seemed  to  pre 
dominate,  was  diminishing.  The  altruistic  theme 
came  out  more  clearly.  It  was  plainer  that  I  meant, 
not  Walt  Whitman,  but  man  —  the  American  work 
man.  The  subject  was  democracy  :  — 

"  Painters  have  painted  their  swarming  groups,  and  the  centre 

figure  of  all ; 
From  the  head  of  the  centre  figure  spreading  a  nimbus  of  gold- 

color'd  light ; 
But  I  paint  myriads  of  heads,  but  paint  no  head  without  its 

nimbus  of  gold-color' d  light ; 
From  my  hand,  from  the  brain  of  every  man  and  woman  it 

streams,  effulgently  flowing  forever." 

With  this  thread  held  firmly  in  hand,  we  are  less 
likely  to  be  misled  by  the  apparent  sensuality  of 
Unfolded  and  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me,  which  he  in 
serted  to  confirm  and  complete  his  previous  attitude. 
It  was  no  wife  or  mistress  of  his,  but  the  women  of 
America,  the  women  of  the  world,  in  whose  physical 

of  the  Open  Road  ;  9.  A  Woman  Waits  for  Me;  10.  A  poem  a 
large  part  of  which  is  left  out  of  the  later  editions,  but  which 
is  partly  preserved  in  "On  the  Beach  at  Night  Alone."  11. 
Excelsior;  12.  Song  of  Prudence  ;  13.  A  poem  which  now 
makes  part  of  the  "  Song  of  the  Answerer."  14.  Assurances  ; 
15.  To  a  Foil'd  European  Revolutionaire ;  16.  A  short  poem, 
part  of  which  is  afterwards  incorporated  in  "  As  I  sat  Alone  by 
Blue  Ontario's  Shore,"  and  the  rest  omitted  from  subsequent 
editions.  17.  Miracles  ;  18.  Spontaneous  Me  ;  19.  A  poem  called 
"  Poem  of  the  Propositions  of  Nakedness,"  afterward  called 
"  Respondez,"  and  printed  in  every  subsequent  edition  down 
to  that  of  1882-'3,  but  omitted  from  that.  20.  Song  of  the 
Rolling  Earth. 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET  (1850-1860)  71 

keeping  are  the  babes  of  mankind.  If  women  be  not 
strong,  where  shall  strength  come  to  the  race  ?  If 
they  be  impassive  and  unworthy,  prudish  and  cold 
blooded,  ill-natured  and  hysterical,  what  can  come  of 
it  but  a  world  of  weaklings  ?  For  — 

"  Unfolded  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman,  man  comes  unfolded, 
and  is  always  to  come  unfolded  ; 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  superbest  woman  of  the  earth,  is  to 
come  the  superbest  man  of  the  earth  ; 

Unfolded  out  of  the  friendliest  woman,  is  to  come  the  friend 
liest  man  ; 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  perfect  body  of  a  woman,  can  a  man 
be  form'd  of  perfect  body.  .  .  . 

Unfolded  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman's  brain,  come  all  the 
folds  of  the  man's  brain,  duly  obedient ; 

Unfolded  out  of  the  justice  of  the  woman,  all  justice  is  un 
folded  ; 

Unfolded  out  of  the  sympathy  of  the  woman  is  all  sympathy  : 

A  man  is  a  great  thing  upon  the  earth,  and  through  eternity  — 
but  every  jot  of  the  greatness  of  man  is  unfolded  out  of 
women ; 

First  the  man  is  shaped  in  the  woman,  he  can  then  be  shaped 
in  himself." 

From  this  glorification  of  motherhood  and  father 
hood  as  they  produce  "sons  and  daughters  fit  for 
These  States/'  we  pass  to  the  longer  new  poems. 
The  splendid  Salut  an  Monde  is  the  first  of  his 
few  well-articulated  poems,  a  survey  of  the  whole 
world  —  its  sounds,  its  physical  aspect,  its  rivers  and 
deserts  and  seas  and  watercourses  and  railroads,  its 
ancient  empires  and  temples  and  battlefields,  its 
uttermost  parts,  its  teeming  cities,  its  diverse  popula 
tions  ;  to  the  lowest  and  meanest  his  love  goes  out. 
It  is  God's  whole  universe  to  which  he  gives  friendly 


72  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

greeting.  The  same  all-embracing  sympathy  shines 
in  Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry,  and  in  it,  in  the  Song 
of  the  Broadaxe?  and  the  Song  of  the  Open  Road, 
we  find  the  concentration  and  unity  that  mark  the 
growth  of  his  artistic  power.  They  lack  the  dove 
tailing  accuracy  of  logical  sequence  that  we  find  in  the 
more  intellectual  poets,  but  they  have  a  sweeping  emo 
tional  sequence  of  transition  from  mood  to  cognate 
mood  that  is  equally  effective.  The  Open  Road  is 
one  of  the  most  haunting  of  all  his  compositions. 
Starting  from  the  highway,  which  entices  one  to  push 
out  boldly  and  carelessly  into  unknown  districts,  he 
transfers  his  symbolism  to  the  open  road  of  thought 
and  feeling  and  action,  urging  his  friends  tenderly  to 
throw  aside  convention  and  conservatism  and  enter 
heartily  upon  the  journey  of  life,  questing  for  the  un 
known  :  — 

"Aliens !  after  the  Great  Companions !  and  to  belong  to  them! 
They  too  are  on  the  road !  they  are  swift  and  majestic  men  ! 
they  are  the  greatest  women.  .  .  . 

1  The  beautiful  opening  lines  of  the  Broadaxe,  which  ap 
proach  closely  to  conventional  metre  and  rhyme,  show  what 
a  tremendous  advance  in  skill  Whitman  had  made  in  less  than 
ten  years,  and  hint  what  he  might  have  done  in  verse  of  a  more 
orthodox  character  had  his  temperament  not  forced  him  into 
the  rhapsodical  style  of  the  mystic  :  — 

"Weapon  shapely,  naked,  wan  1 
Head  from  the  mother's  bowels  drawn  ! 
Wooded  flesh  and  metal  bone  1  limb  only  one,  and  lip  only 

one  ! 
Gray-blue  leaf  by  red-heat  grown  !  helve  produced  from 

a  little  seed  sown  ! 
Resting  the  grass  amid  and  upon, 
To  be  lean'd,  and  to  lean  on." 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND  POET    (1850-1860)  73 

"  My  call  is  the  call  of  battle — I  nourish  active  rebellion  ; 
He  going  with  me  must  go  well  arm'd ; 
He  going  with  me  goes  often  with  spare  diet,  poverty,  angry 
enemies,  desertions. 

"  Allons !  the  road  is  before  us ! 

It  is  safe — I  have  tried  it  —  my  own  feet  have  tried  it 
well. 

"Allons !  be  not  detain'd  ! 
Let  the  paper  remain  on  the  desk  unwritten,  and  the  book 

on  the  shelf  unopen'd  ! 
Let  the  tools  remain  in  the  workshop  !  let  the  money  remain 

unearn'd  ! 

Let  the  school  stand  !  mind  not  the  cry  of  the  teacher  ! 
Let  the  preacher  preach  in  his  pulpit !  let  the  lawyer  plead  in 

the  court,  and  the  judge  expound  the  law. 

u  Mon  enfant  !  I  give  you  my  hand  ! 
I  give  you  my  love,  more  precious  than  money, 
I  give  you  myself,  before  preaching  or  law; 
Will  you  give  me  yourself  ?  will  you  come  travel  with  me  ? 
Shall  we  stick  by  each  other  as  long  as  we  live  ?  " 

On  the  back  of  the  new  volume  were  stamped  in 
gold  letters  a  few  words  from  Emerson's  letter:  "I 
greet  you  at  the  beginning  of  a  great  career.  R.  W. 
Emerson."  In  an  appendix,  which  consisted  mainly 
of  notices,  Emerson's  letter  of  July,  1855,  was  printed 
in  full,  and  with  it  a  letter  from  Whitman  which  ex- 
plained  his  aims  :  — 

"  Other  work,"  he  says,  "  I  have  set  for  myself  to  do,  to  meet 
people  and  The  States  face  to  face,  to  confront  them  with  an 
American  rude  tongue  ;  but  the  work  of  my  life  is  making 
poems.  I  keep  on  till  I  make  a  hundred,  and  then  several  hun 
dred —  perhaps  a  thousand.  The  way  is  clear  to  me.  A  few 
years,  and  the  average  annual  call  for  my  Poems  is  ten  or 
twenty  thousand  copies  —  more,  quite  likely.  Why  should  I 
hurry  or  compromise  ?  In  poems  or  in  speeches  I  say  the  word 


74  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

or  two  that  has  got  to  be  said,  adhere  to  the  body,  step  with  the 
countless  common  footsteps,  and  remind  every  man  or  woman 
of  something. 

"  Master,  I  am  a  man  who  has  perfect  faith.  Master,  we  have 
not  come  through  centuries,  caste,  heroisms,  fables,  to  halt  in 
this  land  to-day." 

The  burden  of  the  letter,  however,  is  plea  for  a  more 
rigorous  and  manly  literature.  He  is  tired  of  "  this 
empty  dish,  gallantry,  this  tepid  wash,  this  diluted 
deferential  love." 

"Strangle  the  singers  who  will  not  sing  to  you  loud  and 
strong.  Open  the  doors  of  the  West.  . .  .  America  is  to  be  kept 
coarse  and  broad.  .  .  .  None  believes  in  These  States.  .  .  .  Not 
a  man  faces  round  at  the  rest  with  a  terrible  negative  voice,  re 
fusing  at  all  times  to  be  bought  off  from  his  own  eye-sight.  .  .  . 
The  churches  are  one  vast  lie  ;  the  people  do  not  believe  them, 
and  they  do  not  believe  themselves.  ...  I  think  there  can 
never  be  again  upon  the  festive  earth  more  bad-disordered  per 
sons  deliberately  taking  seats,  as  of  late  in  These  States,  at  the 
heads  of  the  public  tables  —  such  corpses'  eyes  for  judges  —  such 
a  rascal  and  thief  in  the  Presidency." 

And  finally :  — 

"Those  shores  you  found.  I  say  you  have  led  The  States 
there  —  have  led  Me  there.  I  say  that  none  has  ever  done  or 
ever  can  do,  a  greater  deed  for  The  States,  than  your  deed. 
Others  may  line  out  the  lines,  build  cities,  work  mines,  break  up 
farms;  it  is  yours  to  have  been  the  original  true  Captain  who  put 
to  sea,  intuitive,  positive,  rendering  the  first  report,  and  more 
by  the  mariners  of  a  thousand  bays,  in  each  tack  of  their  arriv 
ing  and  departing,  many  years  after  you. 

"Receive,  dear  Master,  these  statements  and  assurances 
through  me,  for  all  the  young  men,  and  for  an  earnest  that 
we  know  none  before  you,  but  the  best  following  you  ;  and  that 
we  demand  to  take  your  name  into  our  keeping,  and  that  we 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND    POET    (1850-1860)  75 

understand  what  you  have  indicated,  and  find  the  same  indi 
cated  in  ourselves,  and  that  we  will  stick  to  it  and  enlarge  upon 
it  through  These  States." 

The  comments  of  the  press  upon  the  second  edition 
were  even  more  condemnatory  than  upon  the  first,  for 
to  the  thoughtless  reader  it  was  apparently  more  in 
decent.  The  public,  however,  showed  a  greater  in 
terest,  —  perhaps,  we  may  suspect,  for  the  same  reason. 
A  thousand  copies1  —  no  small  number  for  a  volume 
of  poems  —  was  sold  in  a  short  time,  and  prepara 
tions  for  a  larger  sale  were  made  through  agencies  in 
the  principal  cities  in  America  and  in  London,  Paris, 
and  Brussels.  But  the  cry  of  public  disapproval  grew 
louder  and  louder,  there  were  threats  of  prosecution, 
and  finally  Fowler  and  Wells,  who,  though  its  real 
publishers,  had  not  given  it  their  imprint,  withdrew 
their  support,  and  the  book  was  allowed  to  go  out  of 
print. 

In  spite  of  the  disfavour  of  the  general  public  Whit 
man  was  beginning  to  attract  the  attention  of  men  of 
larger  judgment.  Emerson  is  said  to  have  been  dis 
pleased  at  the  publicity  given  to  his  letter,  though  this 
was  done  at  the  advice  of  Charles  A.  Dana,  a  friend  of 
both  Emerson  and  Whitman  ;  and  Whitman  himself  was 
innocent  of  wrong :  "  I  supposed  the  letter  was  meant 
to  be  blazoned,"  he  said  years  later ;  "  I  regarded  it  as 

JIn  his  letter  to  Emerson,  appended  to  the  second  edition, 
Whitman  said  that  the  thousand  copies  of  the  first  edition  were 
readily  sold.  This  seems  to  contradict  flatly  the  statement 
made  by  Burroughs  and  borne  out  by  Whitman's  allusions  to 
the  subject  later.  Perhaps  he  was  merely  translating  his  hopes 
into  facts,  or  had  in  mind  negotiations,  of  which  we  are  igno 
rant,  for  disposing  of  the  entire  remainder  of  the  first  edition. 


76  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

the  charter  of  an  emperor."  Whatever  annoyance 
Emerson  may  have  felt,  however,  had  no  effect  upon 
their  personal  intercourse.  He  disapproved  of  the 
publication  of  poems  that  touched  on  sexual  relations, 
but  he  had  a  genuine  liking  for  Whitman  and  came 
several  times  to  see  him.  And  even  before  the  pub 
lication  of  the  second  edition  he  had  begun  to  point 
out  Whitman  as  a  man  worth  knowing.  Thus  came 
Thoreau,  greatly  puzzled  by  the  "  disagreeable  "  pieces, 
but  carried  out  of  himself  —  "put  into  a  liberal 
state  of  mind,"  as  he  expressed  it,  by  Whitman's  en 
thusiastic  optimism  ;  Bronson  Alcott,  who  saw  less  of 
Whitman  than  of  his  mother,  from  whom  he  heard  end 
less  praises  of  her  son's  goodness  and  wisdom  ;  and 
Moncure  D.  Conway,  who  found  him  basking  in  the 
blazing  sun  in  a  pasture,  went  bathing  with  him  in  the 
sea,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  Tombs,  witnessing  a 
striking  incident  of  his  influence  over  the  warden  in 
behalf  of  an  ill-used  prisoner.  Like  others,  he  was 
impressed  by  Whitman's  gentleness,  modesty  of  per 
son,  and  simplicity  of  manner,  by  his  essential  greatness 
and  nobility  of  mind,  by  the  magnetic,  almost  physical 
influence,  which  he  exercised  over  men.  William 
Cullen  Bryant  and  Henry  Ward  Beecher  came  also, 
and  Lord  Houghton,  who  shared  his  supper  of  roast 
apples,  as  George  Whitman  relates.  At  this  period, 
too,  Whitman  began  to  make  warm  friendships  in 
families  of  a  higher  social  status  than  his  own,  where 
he  went  almost  daily,  meeting  women  of  more  refine 
ment  than  he  had  hitherto  known,  and  winning  affec 
tion  and  confidence  from  all. 

To  grasp  the  whole  of  his  life,  however,  we  must 
not  forget  his  frequent  association  with  labouring  men 


in.]  WORKMAN   AND  POET   (1850-1860)  77 

of  all  classes,  to  be  described  more  particularly  later 
on,  and  his  more  or  less  regular  meetings  with  the  so- 
called  "  Bohemian "  set  at  Pf  aff's,  a  dingy  German 
basement  restaurant  on  Broadway,  where  actors  and 
journalists  were  wont  to  gather.  Of  the  writers  many 
were  out  of  accord  with  the  prevailing  tone  of  Ameri 
can  letters,  and  there  was  much  in  their  radical  pro 
gramme,  developed  under  French  influence,  with  which 
Whitman  could  sympathize,  as  he  could  sympathize 
with  anything  that  tended  to  break  up  routine  and  con 
ventionalism,  in  poetry.  But  he  was,  it  would  seem, 
for  the  most  part  a  quiet  onlooker  and  listener  amid 
the  clouds  of  smoke,  sitting  placidly  over  his  glass 
of  beer,  and  "  emanating,"  as  Mr.  Howells,  who  first 
saw  him  there,  said,  "  an  atmosphere  of  purity  and 
serenity." 

In  the  quiet  years  that  immediately  followed  Whit 
man  gave  himself  wholly  up  to  his  work,  living 
frugally  on  such  means  as  he  had  derived  from  his 
business  pursuits  and  the  sales  of  his  second  edition. 
His  first  thought  was  the  completion  of  the  Leaves 
of  Grass,  and  there  are  extant  in  his  huge  collection 
of  manuscript  notes  a  multitude  of  memoranda  for 
revision  and  addition.  He  made  lists  of  different 
themes  and  suggestive  words,  and  cautioned  himself 
again  and  again  to  avoid  "  all  poetical  similes  —  to  be 
faithful  to  the  perfect  likelihoods  of  nature  —  healthy, 
exact,  simple,  disdaining  ornaments." 

But  there  was  a  time  also  when  he  conceived  of  a 
new  point  of  attack,  or  rather  reverted  to  an  earlier 
plan  of  reaching  his  fellow-countrymen  more  directly 
through  the  spoken  word.  He  was  to  prepare  a  whole 
series  of  lectures,  explaining  and  fortifying  his 


78  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

theories.  These  would  attract  the  wandering  atten 
tion  of  the  public  to  his  poetical  work,  to  which  it 
could  be  regarded  as  supplementary.  It  was  appar 
ently  with  such  a  purpose  in  mind  that  he  made  the 
memorandum,  in  June,  1857  :  "  The  Great  Construc 
tion  of  the  New  Bible.  Not  to  be  diverted  from  the 
principal  object  —  the  main  life  —  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five.  —  It  ought  to  be  ready  in  1859."  His 
plan  was  to  make  himself  the  great  orator  of  the  day, 
the  man  who  would  tell  Americans  their  faults,  arid  in 
struct  them  in  the  social  and  political  virtues.  No 
great  personal  gain  was  to  be  his ;  his  admission  fee 
was  to  be  fifteen  or  even  ten  cents ;  but  he  was  to  be 
the  moulder  of  public  opinion.  As  Washington  freed 
America  from  the  domination  of  the  English  govern 
ment,  so  Whitman  was  to  free  us  from  the  domination 
of  all  foreign  ideals.  On  April  24,  1857,  he  made  the 
memorandum :  — 

"True  Vista  before.  —  The  strong  thought-impression  or 
conviction  that  the  straight,  broad,  open,  well-marked  true 
vista  before,  or  course  of  public  teacher,  '  wander-speaker,' 

—  by  powerful  words,  orations,  uttered  with  copiousness  and 
decision,  with  all  the  aid  of  art,  also  the  natural  flowing  vocal 
luxuriance  of  oratory.     That  the  mightiest  rule  over  America 
could  be  thus  —  as  for  instance,  on  occasion,  at  Washington  to 
be,  launching  from  public  room,  at  the  opening  of  the  session 
of  Congress  —  perhaps  launching  at  the  President,  leading  per 
sons,  Congressmen,  or  Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court.     That  to 
dart  hither  or  thither,  as  some  great  emergency  might  demand 

—  the  greatest  champion  America  ever  could  know,  yet  holding 
no  office  or  emolument  whatever,  —  but  first  in  the  esteem  of 
men  and  women.     Not  to  direct  eyes  or  thoughts  to  any  of  the 
usual  avenues,  as  of  official  appointment,  or  to  get  such  anyway. 
To  put  all  those  aside  for  good.     But  always  to  keep  up  living 
interest  in  public  questions  —  and  always  to  hold  the  ear  of  the 
people." 


in.]  WORKMAN   AND   POET    (1850-1860)  79 

One  of  these  lectures  has  been  preserved  for  us, 
in  a  rough  outline,  in  An  American  Primer,  —  "a 
primer  of  words  for  American  young  men  and  women, 
for  literats,  orators,  teachers,  musicians,  judges,  presi 
dents,  etc./'  a  discourse,  in  short,  on  words,  for  all 
who  use  words  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  public. 
The  outline  was  never  filled  out,  but  the  existing 
fragments  embody  something  of  the  author's  insight 
into  the  relation  between  language  and  life  and  of  his 
attitude  as  an  artist  towards  his  medium.  The  main 
theme  bears  a  certain  resemblance  to  Dante's  unfin 
ished  treatise  On  the  Vulgar  Tongue  and  to  Words 
worth's  kindred  prefaces.  The  language  of  books, 
Whitman  saw,  was  not  the  language  of  the  people, 
and,  in  so  far  as  it  was  merely  conventional,  stood  as 
a  barrier  between  the  writer  and  the  world.  He  would 
have  us  realize  that  words  are  not  original  things,  but 
accidents,  transitory  experiments  of  mankind  in  the 
nomenclature  of  emotions  and  ideas,  and  that  all  who 
deal  publicly  with  expression  must  be  co-workers  in 
the  confused  and  laborious  process  by  which  the 
new  conceptions  and  the  new  moods  of  a  nation  find 
adequate  symbols.  The  poet,  too,  must  build  upon 
something  more  basic  than  the  word:  "latent,  in  a 
great  user  of  words,  must  actually  be  all  passions, 
crimes,  trades,  animals,  stars,  God,  sex,  the  past,  night, 
space,  metals,  and  the  like  —  because  these  are  the 
words,  and  he  who  is  not  these  plays  with  a  foreign 
tongue,  turning  helplessly  to  dictionaries  and  authori 
ties."  Such  ideas  are  now  not  unfamiliar,  but  they 
were  not  current  in  New  York  in  the  fifties,  and  it  is 
to  Whitman's  credit  that  he  could  evolve  them,  even 
thus  blindly,  for  himself. 


80  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

These  great  plans  of  interesting  the  public  soon 
came  to  naught,  however.  His  fertile  imagination 
and  his  clear  insight  into  the  needs  of  the  nation  had 
tricked  him  into  proposing  for  himself  a  course  of 
action  for  which  he  had  no  real  fitness  or  special 
training.  It  was  not  long  before  he  came  to  see  that 
he  could  not  in  this  way  press  his  message  upon  the 
attention  of  the  public.  Moreover,  his  mind  was  now 
becoming  possessed  by  a  new  idea,  —  a  new  passion, 
one  might  say.  Just  as  he  had  discovered  for  him 
self  the  immense  social  importance  of  man's  love  for 
woman,  so  now  he  was  becoming  aware  of  the  fact 
that  the  love  of  man  for  man  was  the  basic  rock  of 
democratic  society. 

For  many  years  he  had  been  strongly  attracted  to 
the  stage-drivers  of  Broadway,  men  of  a  very  special 
type,  who  had  usually  been  bred  in  the  country,  and 
who  had  become  expert  in  the  extraordinarily  difficult 
art,  compounded  of  strength,  skill,  and  intelligence, 
of  managing  a  clumsy  vehicle  in  a  congested  thorough 
fare.  Among  his  notes  are  a  number  of  memoranda 
relating  to  such  friends  of  his,  in  which  it  is  apparent 
that  at  first  he  admired  particularly  in  them  their 
intense  virility.  With  regard  to  Peter ,  for  in 
stance,  he  writes :  — 

"  Peter    ,   large,    strong-boned  young    fellow,   driver. 

Should  weigh  180.  Free  and  candid  to  me  the  very  first  time 
he  saw  me.  Man  of  strong  self-will,  powerful  coarse  feelings 
and  appetites.  Had  a  quarrel,  borrowed  $300,  left  his  father's 
somewhere  in  the  interior  of  the  State,  fell  in  with  a  couple  of 
gamblers,  hadn't  been  home  or  written  there  in  seven  years. 
I  liked  his  refreshing  wickedness,  as  it  would  be  called  by  the 
orthodox.  He  seemed  to  feel  a  perfect  independence,  dashed 
with  a  little  resentment  toward  the  world  in  general.  I  never 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND  POET    (1850-1860)  81 

met  a  man  that  seemed  to  me,  as  far  as  I  could  tell  in  forty 
minutes,  more  open,  coarse,  self-willed,  strong  and  free  from 
the  sickly  desire  to  be  on  society's  lines  and  points." 

As  time  wore  on,  however,  we  can  dimly  see  that  a 
new  spirit  entered  into  his  relations  with  these  and 
other  men,  a  yearning,  affectionate  spirit.  He  was 
more  drawn  toward  the  younger  men,  who  might  have 
been  his  brothers  or  sons.  His  mystical  imagination, 
which  had  at  first  been  preoccupied  with  the  over 
powering  sense  of  personal  identity  and  with  all  that 
tended  to  magnify  the  individual  and  to  make  him  virile 
and  intense,  and  that  hence  centred  itself  largely  in 
the  life  of  the  senses,  was  now  being  rapidly  modified. 
He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  new  law  —  the  good  will  and 
tender  sympathy  of  man  for  man,  on  which  all  social 
progress  might  be  said  to  rest.  He  began  voluntarily 
to  sacrifice  himself  for  such  men,  to  tend  them  in  their 
sickness,  and  to  comfort  them  in  their  afflictions ;  and 
in  one  instance  he  took  a  disabled  driver's  place  for  a 
whole  winter,  that  his  family  might  not  lack  its  cus 
tomary  support.  A  similar  tenderness  and  gracious- 
ness  of  feeling  characterized  his  relationship  with  his 
friends  among  the  ferry  hands,  as  may  be  seen  by  the 
memories  that  one  of  them  has  put  on  record :  — 

**  Thirty  years  ago,  while  employed  upon  an  East  River  steam 
boat,  I  became  acquainted  with  Walt  Whitman,  and  the  asso 
ciation  has  ever  since  been  a  treasured  one  by  myself  and  the 
rest  of  my  companion  boatmen.  He  came  among  us  simply  as 
a  sociable  passenger,  but  his  genial  behavior  soon  made  him  a 
most  welcome  visitor.  We  knew  somewhat  of  his  reputation 
as  a  man  of  letters,  but  the  fact  made  no  great  impression  upon 
us,  nor  did  he  ever  attempt  a  display  of  his  gifts  or  learning  that 
would  in  the  least  make  us  feel  he  was  not  '  of  us,  and  one  of 
us,'  as  he  used  to  express  it.  In  a  charmingly  practical  demo- 
G 


82  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

cratic  manner  he  took  great  pains  to  teach  many  valuable  things 
to  a  hard-handed  band  of  men  whose  life  hao.  afforded  little 
time  for  books.  In  later  years  I  have  realized  that  *  Walt '  — 
he  would  allow  no  other  salutation  from  us  —  has  done  much 
gratuitous  work  as  a  teacher,  and  in  looking  back  I  also  realize 
his  excellence  as  an  instructor.  A  careful  choice  of  words  and 
terse  method  of  explaining  a  subject  were  truly  peculiar  to 
him  —  at  least  the  faculty  was  marvellous  to  us.  In  our  long 
watches  —  he  would  pass  entire  afternoons  and  even  nights 
with  us  —  he  would  discourse  in  a  clear,  conversational  sort  of 
way  upon  politics,  literature,  art,  music  or  the  drama,  from  a 
seemingly  endless  storing  of  knowledge.  He  certainly  urged 
some  of  us  into  a  desire  for  attainments  that  perhaps  would 
not  otherwise  have  been  aroused.  'My  boy,'  he  would  often 
say,  after  simply  but  eloquently  treating  some  theme,  'you 
must  read  more  of  this  for  yourself,'  and  then  generously  put 
his  library  at  the  listener's  service.  I  have  seen  a  youth  swab 
bing  a  steamboat's  deck  with  Walt's  Homer  in  his  monkey-jacket 
pocket !" 

A  passage  in  the  Leaves  of  Grass  which  was 
written  about  this  time,  and  which  appeared  only  in 
the  edition  of  1860,  reveals  the  progress  of  his  thought 
under  the  spur  of  this  new  feeling.  He  was  to  sing 
no  more ;  he  was  to  be  the  great  comrade  of  man  :  — 

"  Long  I  thought  that  knowledge  alone  would  suffice  me  —  O  if 

I  could  but  obtain  knowledge  ! 
Then  my  lands  engrossed  me  —  Lands  of  the  prairies,  Ohio's 

land,  the  southern  savannas,  engrossed  me  —  For  them 

I  would  live  —  I  would  be  their  orator ; 
Then  I  met  the  examples  of  old  and  new  heroes  —  I  heard  of 

warriors,  sailors,    and   all  dauntless  persons  —  And   it 

seemed  to  me  that  I  too  had  it  in  me  to  be  as  dauntless 

as  any  —  and  would  be  so  ; 
And  then,  to  enclose  all,  it  came  to  me  to  strike  up  the  songs 

of  the  New  World  —  And  then  I  believed  my  life  must 

be  spent  in  singing  ; 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND   POET    (1850-1860)  83 

But  now  take  notice,  land  of  the  prairies,  land  of  the  south 

savannas,  Ohio's  land, 
Take  notice,  you  Kanuck  woods  —  and   you  Lake   Huron  — 

and  all  that  with  you  roll  toward  Niagara  —  and  you 

Niagara  also, 
And  you  Calif ornian  mountains  — That  you  each  and  all  find 

somebody  else  to  be  your  singer  of  songs, 
For  I  can  be  your  singer  of  songs  no  longer  —  One  who  loves 

me  is  jealous  of  me,  and  withdraws  me  from  all  love, 
With  the  rest  I  dispense  —  I  sever  from  what  I  thought  would 

suffice  me,  for  it  does  not —  it  is  now  empty  and  tasteless 

to  me, 
I  heed  knowledge  and  the  grandeur  of  the  States,  and  the 

example  of  heroes,  no  more, 

I  am  indifferent  to  my  own  songs  —  I  will  go  with  him  I  love, 
It  is  to  be  enough  for  us  that  we  are  together  —  We  never 

separate  again." 

Before  his  feeling  reached  the  point  where  it 
seemed  that  he  should  write  no  more,  he  had  accumu 
lated  a  considerable  body  of  new  poems,  and  in  1860 
an  opportunity  to  publish  them  presented  itself. 
Thayer  and  Eldridge,  a  Boston  firm  in  good  standing, 
offered  to  reprint  the  Leaves  of  Grass,  with  what 
ever  new  material  he  had.  Whitman  accepted  the 
proposal,  and  in  March  of  that  year  went  to  Boston  to 
superintend  the  setting-up  of  his  book.  There  he 
made  a  number  of  new  friends,  among  them  Mr. 
Eldridge  himself,  whom  he  was  later  to  know  better 
in  Washington;  W.  D.  O'Connor,  a  brilliant  young 
Irishman,  whose  Abolitionist  novel,  Harrington)  was 
soon  to  appear  from  the  same  press,  and  who  after 
wards  became  Whitman's  stanch  friend  and  cham 
pion  ;  and  J.  T.  Trowbridge,  in  whose  reminiscences 
there  is  an  interesting  record  of  the  silent,  gray- 
haired,  and  gray-bearded  poet,  undemonstrative,  and 


84  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

without  a  touch,  of  bravado  or  self-assertiveness,  whom 
he  saw  patiently  correcting  his  proofs  in  a  dingy 
printing-office. 

With  Emerson  he  had  a  number  of  meetings,  of  one 
of  which  he  has  left  an  interesting  reminiscence  : — 

"Up  and  down  this  breadth  by  Beacon  Street,  between 
these  same  old  elms,  I  walk'd  for  two  hours,  of  a  bright  sharp 
February  mid-day  twenty-one  years  ago,  with  Emerson,  then 
in  his  prime,  keen,  physically  and  morally  magnetic,  arm'd  at 
every  point,  and  when  he  chose,  wielding  the  emotional  just  as 
well  as  the  intellectual.  During  those  two  hours  he  was  the 
talker  and  I  the  listener.  It  was  an  argument-statement,  recon 
noitring,  review,  attack,  and  pressing  home,  (like  an  army 
corps  in  order,  artillery,  cavalry,  infantry,)  of  all  that  could  be 
said  against  that  part  (and  a  main  part)  in  the  construction 
of  my  poems,  '  Children  of  Adam.'  More  precious  than  gold  to 
me  that  dissertation — it  afforded  me,  even  after,  this  strange 
paradoxical  lesson  ;  each  point  of  E.'s  statement  was  unanswer 
able,  no  judge's  charge  ever  more  complete  or  convincing,  I 
could  never  hear  the  points  better  put  —  and  then  I  felt  down 
in  my  soul  the  clear  and  unmistakable  conviction  to  disobey  all, 
and  pursue  my  own  way.  '  What  have  you  to  say  then  to  such 
things  ?  '  said  E.,  pausing  in  conclusion.  '  Only  that  while  I 
can't  answer  them  at  all,  I  feel  more  settled  than  ever  to  adhere 
to  my  own  theory,  and  exemplify  it,'  was  my  candid  response. 
Whereupon  we  went  and  had  a  good  dinner  at  the  American 
House.  And  thenceforward  I  never  waver'd  or  was  touch'd 
with  qualms,  (as  I  confess  I  had  been  two  or  three  times  be 
fore.") 

Of  the  remaining  important  members  of  the  Boston 
group  of  men  of  letters  he  apparently  saw  little  or 
nothing.  For  Emerson  he  had  the  greatest  respect 
and  affection,  as  for  an  elder  and  more  austere  brother 
who  did  not  deny  the  kinship  of  blood  and  spirit  that 
bound  them  both ;  but  between  the  others  and  him- 


in.]  WORKMAN  AND  POET   (1850-1860)  85 

self  there  was  little  sympathy,  and  though  Lowell 
printed  Whitman's  As  I  ebb'd  with  the  Ocean  of 
Life  in  the  Atlantic  for  April,  he  does  not  seem  to 
have  taken  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  seek 
Whitman's  friendship.  Father  Taylor,  however,  the 
eloquent  preacher  at  the  Seamen's  Bethel,  Whitman 
heard  often,  recognizing  him  as  the  one  "perfect 
orator  "  to  whom  he  had  ever  listened ;  but  here  again 
there  was  a  distant  but  distinct  spiritual  kinship. 

The  edition  of  1860-1861  is  a  substantial  volume, 
crowded  with  poems  and  parts  of  poems,  new  and  old, 
the  old  bearing  many  marks  of  patient  and  skilful 
revision.  It  is  a  bewildering  succession  of  moods,  all 
expressed  in  Whitman's  elusive  fashion,  a  mass  of 
sensations  and  symbols,  from  which  it  is  impossible 
at  first  to  gain  definite  or  coherent  impressions.  One 
is  stimulated  in  a  multitude  of  ways,  but  it  is  only 
after  repeated  readings  that  it  is  possible  to  form  a 
coherent  and  unified  judgment. 

As,  however,  reflection  clarifies  these  glimpses  into 
the  heart  of  a  great  dreamer,  one  slowly  begins  to  see 
how  his  mystic  message  was  being  transformed.  The 
poet  has  ceased  to  wonder  anew  at  the  miracle  of  his 
own  being ;  he  has  almost  passed  beyond  his  preoccu 
pation  with  the  stimuli  of  sex,  though  he  collects  and 
confirms  his  feelings  on  this  topic  before  letting  it 
drop  entirely  into  the  background  of  his  thought. 
The  message  of  equality,  too,  the  mystic  sympathy 
with  all  created  things,  though  similarly  confirmed,  is 
scarcely  so  much  stressed  as  in  the  previous  poems, 
and  though  his  mind  runs  much  on  the  career  of 
America  and  the  proud  democracy  of  labour  which  she 
is  developing,  his  real  thought  lies  deeper  still.  He 


86  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

announces  a  new  religion  of  affectionate  comradeship 
—  a  spiritual  fellowship  without  which  political  and 
industrial  and  physical  democracy  is  of  no  avail :  — 

"  I  dream 'd  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the  attacks 

of  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  earth ; 
I  dream'd  that  was  the  new  City  of  Friends;  nothing  was 

greater  there  than  the  quality  of  robust  love  —  it  led  the 

rest; 

It  was  seen  every  hour  in  the  actions  of  the  men  of  that  city, 
And  in  all  their  looks  and  words." 

Deeper  yet,  just  as  formerly  his  imagination  had 
dwelt  exultantly  on  the  passionate  love  of  men  and 
women,  to  which  our  existence  is  due,  so  now  it  dwelt 
on  a  second  and  greater  law  of  love,  —  that  force  of 
affection  which,  without  stimulus  of  sex,  binds  human 
ity  together :  — 

"  Fast-Anchor'd,  eternal,  0  love!  O  woman  I  love! 

0  bride!  0  wife!  more  resistless  than  I  can  tell,  the  thought  of 

you! 

—  Then  separate,  as  disembodied,  or  another  born, 
Ethereal,  the  last  athletic  reality,  my  consolation; 

1  ascend  —  I  float  in  the  regions  of  your  love,  O  man, 
O  sharer  of  my  roving  life." 

And  deeper  yet,  in  mystical  broodings  of  fancy  in 
which  few  can  follow  him.  Just  as  formerly  he 
pictured  himself,  as  the  type-man,  as  lover  and  hus 
band  and  father,  the  incarnation  of  sex,  so  now  he 
announces  himself  as  the  lover  of  his  friend,  yearning 
for  his  close  companionship,  for  his  kiss  and  his  em 
brace.  The  Anglo-Saxon,  with  his  sense  of  physical 
aloofness,  finds  these  sayings  hard.  Whitman  him 
self  falters  and  seems  at  times  ill  at  ease,  and  declares 
that  he  shades  his  thought ;  but  it  is  clear  that  we 


in.]  WORKMAN   AND   POET    (1850-1860)  87 

have  here  no  abnormality  or  perversion  of  feeling.  I 
should  say  rather  that  Whitman's  extraordinary  nature 
possessed  to  a  most  unusual  degree,  and  with  refer 
ence  to  many,  the  feeling  of  physical  love,  —  wholly 
disassociated  with  sex,  —  which  we,  in  varying  de 
grees,  bear  to  our  parents,  or  brothers,  or  sons,  or 
perhaps,  more  faintly,  to  friends.  What  appears  to 
us  as  a  minute,  almost  unrecognizable  element  in  life, 
only  revealing  itself  under  exceptional  circumstances, 
was  to  him  a  powerful  and  constant  yearning,  —  the 
more  so  as  he  was  cut  off  from  his  own  children. 
Through  his  timid  and  hesitating  expression  of  this 
new  idea  of  physical  comradeship  one  may  perhaps 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  conception  that  a  feeling  so 
largely  developed  in  him  was  merely  latent  in  others  ; 
and  that  in  the  evolution  of  our  race  there  might  be 
come  normal  and  natural  in  all  men  a  yearning  of 
companion  for  companion,  a  love  of  friend  for  friend, 
that  would  be  among  the  highest  manifestations  of 
the  divinity  within  us. 

And  deeper  and  more  mystical  still,  a  doctrine  that 
as  the  love  of  sex  was  bound  up  with  life,  so  this 
greater,  more  basic  love  was  bound  up  with  death. 
The  former  plays  its  part,  fulfils  its  function,  and  has 
its  end.  The  latter,  less  obvious  in  its  aim,  looks  for 
ward  beyond  the  term  of  life  for  the  fulfilment  of  its 
mysterious  power.  The  love  of  sex  wanes  with  age 
and  disappears  with  life,  but  perhaps  not  so  the  other, 
which  may  somehow  have  the  same  affinity  for  death 
that  its  predecessor  had  for  life.  Whether  Whitman 
was  conscious  of  this  inference  is  open  to  doubt,  but 
the  ideas  appear  in  close  juxtaposition  in  these  poems, 
and  seem  to  have  had  in  his  mind  a  real  connection. 


88  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP.  in. 

Such  were  the  contents  of  the  new  volume  issuing 
from  the  press  in  the  troubled  days  just  preceding  the 
outbreak  of  the  war.  Even  at  a  less  perturbed  mo 
ment  his  voice  would  scarcely  have  been  heard  by 
many,  and  as  it  was  misfortune  early  overtook  the 
venture.  The  political  crisis  came,  and  with  it  a  re 
striction  of  credit.  The  publishing  house  failed,  after 
selling  four  or  five  thousand  copies,  and  Whitman  at 
forty-two  seemed  destined  to  be  a  voice  vainly  crying 
in  the  wilderness. 


CHAPTER  IV 

COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873) 

WHITMAN  returned  from  Boston  in  June,  1860,  and 
resumed  his  quiet  life  in  his  mother's  house,  but  we 
have  little  further  information  regarding  him  until 
late  in  1862.  When,  in  April,  1861,  the  Civil  War 
broke  out,  Whitman's  first  thought  must  have  been  of 
what  service  he  could  render,  for  he  was  a  zealous  up 
holder  of  the  Union,  but  he  was  obviously  wise  in  not 
volunteering,  and  in  biding  his  time  until  his  proper 
duty  revealed  itself,  though  the  possibility  of  entering 
the  army  remained  in  his  mind  long  after  he  had  be 
come  a  hospital  nurse.  His  slow  ways  and  his  unique 
individuality  made  him  ill-suited  for  the  discipline  of 
camp  and  battle.  His  brother  George,  however,  en 
listed  at  once  in  the  51st  New  York  Volunteers,  and 
it  was  this  circumstance  that  eventually  changed  the 
whole  character  of  Whitman's  life. 

Few  as  are  the  data  that  bear  on  Whitman's  life 
during  this  period  of  two  years,  we  can  surmise  how 
much  he  was  moved  by  the  great  turmoil  about  him. 
His  dream  of  a  brotherhood  of  American  youth  was 
apparently  shattered  forever,  by  civic  strife,  but  he 
must  have  found  hope  in  witnessing  the  exultant  out 
burst  of  patriotism,  and  have  been  thrilled  by  the 
"  drum-taps "  to  which  the  streets  of  Manhattan 
echoed  as  the  troops  gathered  to  the  defence  of  their 
flag.  For  his  own  part  he  registered  a  vow,  written 
in  his  own  hand  April  16,  1861,  and  found  after  his 

89 


90  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

death,  among  his  papers  :  "  I  have  this  day,  this  hour, 
resolved  to  inaugurate  for  myself  a  pure,  perfect, 
sweet,  clean-blooded,  robust  body,  by  ignoring  all 
drinks  but  water  and  pure  milk,  and  all  fat  meats, 
late  suppers  —  a  great  body,  a  purged,  cleansed, 
spiritualized,  invigorated  body."  A  frugal  liver,  he 
thus  passed  into  something  like  austerity  of  diet,  in 
discipline  and  in  preparation  for  whatever  call  should 
be  laid  upon  him. 

This  quiet  life  came  to  an  end  when,  in  December, 
1862,  his  brother's  name  appeared  in  the  list  of  those 
seriously  wounded  at  Frederick sburg.  Whitman  at 
once  started  for  Washington.  His  pocket  was  picked 
on  the  route,  and  he  arrived  penniless  and  without 
knowledge  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  his  brother ;  but 
he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  find  Mr.  O'Connor,  then  in 
the  Treasury  Department,  whom  he  had  met  in  Boston, 
and  who  supplied  him  with  funds  and  helped  him  to 
obtain  information.  George  was  not  in  the  hospitals 
at  Washington,  and  Whitman  made  his  way  with  diffi 
culty  to  the  seat  of  war,  where  he  found  that  his  brother 
was  already  recovered  from  a  wound  in  the  cheek 
made  by  a  fragment  of  a  shell,  and  had  just  received 
his  promotion  to  a  captaincy.  Once  in  camp,  Whit 
man  tarried  a  few  days  to  see  the  life  there,  and, 
characteristically,  became  greatly  interested  in  some 
of  the  sick  and  wounded  men.  Returning  to  Wash 
ington,  he  was,  on  the  way,  of  much  assistance  in 
nursing  them,  and  he  determined  to  tarry  awhile  to 
see  what  further  he  could  do  for  such  unfortunates. 

At  that  time  Washington  contained  a  whole  city  of 
sick  and  wounded  men,  perhaps  fifty  thousand  or 
more,  at  first  occupying  public  buildings  already 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  91 

standing — the  vast  area  of  the  second  story  of  the 
Patent  Office,  for  example,  and  even  part  of  the  Capi 
tol,  and  afterward  wooden  one-story  barracks.  There 
were  fifty  hospitals,  each  a  little  town  in  itself,  full 
of  the  wrecks  of  battle  or  disease.  Camp  sanitation 
was  little  understood,  and  soldiers  were  wasted  by 
dysentery  and  fevers ;  antiseptic  surgery  had  not  been 
discovered,  and  the  mortality  from  suppurating  wounds 
was  terrific ;  there  was  little  provision  on  the  part  of 
the  Government ;  surgeons  and  nurses  did  what  they 
could,  but,  especially  at  first,  there  were  many  important 
things  left  undone  because  there  was  no  one  to  do 
them.  Particularly  was  this  the  case  in  respect  to 
the  minor  comforts  of  illness.  The  men  were  without 
money,  without  news  from  their  relatives,  without 
an  opportunity  of  writing  home;  their  major  wants 
were  attended  to,  but  they  lacked  comfort  and  inspi 
ration  and  counsel.  They  died  of  homesickness  and 
abandonment.  There  were  many  in  the  Sanitary  Ser 
vice,  and  more  particularly  in  the  Christian  Commis 
sion,  who  helped  in  such  matters,  and  a  few  volunteers, 
among  whom  Whitman  was  preeminent.  He  sup 
ported  himself  by  a  little  newspaper  work  and  by 
copying  a  few  hours  each  day  in  the  office  of  Major 
Hapgood,  an  army  paymaster,  where  his  friend  and 
former  publisher,  Mr.  Eldridge,  was  now  a  clerk. 
The  greater  part  of  his  time  he  gave  to  the  sufferers 
in  the  hospitals.  Eriends  in  New  York  and  elsewhere 
supplied  him  with  money  for  the  work.  Before  the 
war  closed  he  had  made  about  six  hundred  hospital 
visits ;  cared,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  for  nearly  a 
hundred  thousand  unfortunates ;  and  expended  many 
thousand  dollars. 


92  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

His  methods  were  characteristic.  When  practicable 
he  prepared  himself  for  his  daily  or  nightly  tour  by 
rest,  a  bath,  and  a  hearty  meal.  Cheerful  in  appear 
ance,  quiet  and  slow  in  his  movements,  with  apparently 
an  abundance  of  time  for  looking  personally  and  care 
fully  into  whatever  needed  his  attention,  he  was  every 
where  welcome.  His  theory  was  that  personal  affection 
played  a  large  part  in  therapeutics :  — 

"  To  many  of  the  wounded  and  sick,  especially  the  youngsters, 
there  is  something  in  personal  love,  caresses,  and  the  magnetic 
flood  of  sympathy  and  friendship,  that  does,  in  its  way,  more 
good  than  all  the  medicine  in  the  world.  I  have  spoken  of  my 
regular  gifts  of  delicacies,  money,  tobacco,  special  articles  of 
food,  knick-knacks,  etc.,  etc.  But  I  steadily  found  more  and 
more  that  I  could  help,  and  turn  the  balance  in  favor  of  cure,  by 
the  means  here  alluded  to,  in  a  curiously  large  proportion  of 
cases.  The  American  soldier  is  full  of  affection  and  the  yearn 
ing  for  affection.  And  it  comes  wonderfully  grateful  to  him  to 
have  this  yearning  gratified  when  he  is  laid  up  with  painful 
wounds  or  illness,  far  away  from  home,  among  strangers.  Many 
will  think  this  merely  seutimentalisin,  but  I  know  it  is  the  most 
solid  of  facts.  I  believe  that  even  the  moving  around  among 
the  men,  or  through  the  ward,  of  a  hearty,  healthy,  clean,  strong, 
generous-souled  person,  man  or  woman,  full  of  humanity  and 
love,  sending  out  invisible,  constant  currents  thereof,  does  im 
mense  good  to  the  sick  and  wounded. 

"  My  custom  is  to  go  through  a  ward,  or  a  collection  of  wards, 
endeavoring  to  give  some  trifle  to  each,  without  missing  any. 
Even  a  sweet  biscuit,  a  sheet  of  paper,  or  a  passing  word  of 
friendliness,  or  but  a  look  or  nod,  if  no  more.  In  this  way  I  go 
through  large  numbers  without  delaying,  yet  do  not  hurry.  I 
find  out  the  general  mood  of  the  ward  at  the  time  ;  sometimes 
see  that  there  is  a  heavy  weight  of  listlessness  prevailing,  and  the 
whole  ward  wants  cheering  up.  I  perhaps  read  to  the  men,  to 
break  the  spell,  calling  them  around  me,  careful  to  sit  away 
from  the  cot  of  any  one  who  is  very  bad  with  sickness  or  wounds. 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  93 

Also  I  find  out,  by  going  through  in  this  way,  the  cases  that 
need  special  attention,  and  can  then  devote  proper  time  to  them. 
Of  course,  I  am  very  cautious,  among  the  patients,  in  giving 
them  food.  I  always  confer  with  the  doctor,  or  find  out  from 
the  nurse  or  ward-master  about  a  new  case.  But  I  soon  get 
sufficiently  familiar  with  what  is  to  be  avoided,  and  learn  also 
to  judge  almost  intuitively  what  is  best." 

His  very  appearance  served  to  hearten  men.  As 
he  wrote  to  his  mother  :  — 

' '  I  believe  I  weigh  about  200,  and  as  to  my  face,  (so 
scarlet,)  and  my  beard  and  neck,  they  are  terrible  to  behold. 
I  fancy  the  reason  I  am  able  to  do  some  good  in  the  hospitals 
among  the  poor  languishing  and  wounded  boys,  is  that  I  am  so 
large  and  well  —  indeed  like  a  great  wild  buffalo,  with  much 
hair.  Many  of  the  soldiers  are  from  the  West,  and  far  North, 
and  they  take  to  a  man  that  has  not  the  bleached  shiny  and 
shaved  cut  of  the  cities  and  the  East." 

The  best  description  of  his  work,  however,  came 
from  John  Swinton  :  — 

"  I  first  heard  of  Whitman  among  the  sufferers  on  the  Pen 
insula  after  a  battle  there.  Subsequently  I  saw  him,  time  and 
again,  in  the  Washington  hospitals,  or  wending  his  way  there 
with  basket  or  haversack  on  his  arm,  and  the  strength  of  benefi 
cence  suffusing  his  face.  His  devotion  surpassed  the  devo 
tion  of  woman.  It  would  take  a  volume  to  tell  of  his  kindness, 
tenderness,  and  thoughtfulness. 

"  Never  shall  I  forget  one  night  when  I  accompanied  him  on 
his  rounds  through  a  hospital,  filled  with  those  wounded  young 
Americans  whose  heroism  he  has  sung  in  deathless  numbers. 
There  were  three  rows  of  cots,  and  each  cot  bore  its  man. 
When  he  appeared,  in  passing  along,  there  was  a  smile  of  affec 
tion  and  welcome  on  every  face,  however  wan,  and  his  presence 
seemed  to  light  up  the  place  as  it  might  be  lit  by  the  presence 
of  the  Son  of  Love.  From  cot  to  cot  they  called  him,  often  in 
tremulous  tones  or  in  whispers  ;  they  embraced  him,  they 
touched  his  hand,  they  gazed  at  him.  To  one  he  gave  a  few 


94  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

words  of  cheer,  for  another  he  wrote  a  letter  home,  to  others 
he  gave  an  orange,  a  few  comfits,  a  cigar,  a  pipe  and  tobacco, 
a  sheet  of  paper  or  a  postage  stamp,  all  of  which  and  many 
other  things  were  in  his  capacious  haversack.  From  another 
he  would  receive  a  dying  message  for  mother,  wife,  or  sweet 
heart  ;  for  another  he  would  promise  to  go  on  an  errand  ;  to 
another,  some  special  friend,  very  low,  he  would  give  a  manly 
farewell  kiss.  He  did  the  things  for  them  which  no  nurse  or 
doctor  could  do,  and  he  seemed  to  leave  a  benediction  at  every 
cot  as  he  passed  along.  The  lights  had  gleamed  for  hours  in 
the  hospital  that  night  before  he  left  it,  and  as  he  took  his  way 
towards  the  door,  you  could  hear  the  voice  of  many  a  stricken 
hero  calling,  '  Walt,  Walt,  Walt,  come  again  !  come  again  ! '  " 

And  the  following  incident,  quoted  by  Dr.  Bucke, 
in  his  biography,  from  a  writer  in  the  New  York 
Tribune,  is  typical  of  the  help  he  gave  in  scores  or 
hundreds  of  instances  :  — 

"  While  walking  in  the  neighborhood  of  New  Rochelle,  West- 
chester  County,  a  few  days  ago,  I  observed  a  man  at  work  in 
a  field  adjoining  the  road,  and  I  opened  a  conversation  with 
him.  He  had  served  in  the  Union  Army  during  the  Rebellion, 
and  I  had  no  trouble  in  inducing  him  to  fight  some  of  his 
battles  over  again.  He  gave  me  a  graphic  description  of  how 
he  was  badly  wounded  in  the  leg  ;  how  the  doctors  resolved  to 
cut  his  leg  off  ;  his  resistance  to  the  proposed  amputation,  and 
his  utter  despair  when  he  found  he  must  lose  his  leg  (as  they 
said)  to  save  his  life.  As  a  last  resort,  he  determined  to  appeal 
to  a  man  who  visited  the  hospital  about  every  alternate  day. 
This  man  was  a  representative  of  the  Sanitary  Commission 
[this  of  course  is  a  mistake],  and  he  described  him  as  a  tall, 
well-built  man  with  the  face  of  an  angel.  He  carried  over  his 
broad  shoulders  a  well-filled  haversack,  containing  about  every 
thing  that  would  give  a  sick  soldier  comfort.  In  it  were  pens, 
ink  and  paper,  thread,  needles,  buttons,  cakes,  candy,  fruit, 
and  above  all,  pipes  and  tobacco.  This  last  article  was  in  gen 
eral  demand.  When  he  asked  a  poor  fellow  if  he  used  tobacco 
and  the  answer  was  'no,'  he  would  express  some  kind  words 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  95 

of  commendation,  but  when  the  answer  was  '  yes,'  he  would 
produce  a  piece  of  plug  and  smilingly  say,  '  Take  it,  my  brave 
boy,  and  enjoy  it.'  He  wrote  letters  for  those  who  were  not 
able  to  write,  and  to  those  who  could  he  would  furnish  the 
materials,  and  never  forget  the  postage  stamp.  His  good- 
natured  and  sympathetic  inquiry  about  their  health  and  what 
changes  had  taken  place  since  he  last  saw  them,  impressed 
every  patient  with  the  feeling  that  he  was  their  personal  friend. 
To  this  man  Rafferty  (that  was  my  informant's  name)  made 
his  last  appeal  to  save  his  shattered  leg.  He  was  listened  to 
with  attention,  a  minute  inquiry  into  his  case,  a  pause,  and 
after  a  few  moments'  thought  the  man  replied,  patting  him  on 
the  head,  '  May  your  mind  rest  easy,  my  boy  ;  they  shan't 
take  it  off.'  Rafferty  began  to  describe  his  feelings  when 
he  received  this  assurance,  and  though  so  many  years  have 
passed  since  then,  his  emotions  mastered  him,  his  voice  trem 
bled  and  thickened,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  he  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  then  blurted  out,  slapping  his  leg  with  his  hand, 
*  This  is  the  leg  that  man  saved  for  me.'  I  asked  the  name  of 
the  Good  Samaritan.  He  said  he  thought  it  was  Whitcomb  or 
something  like  that.  I  suggested  it  was  just  like  Walt  Whit 
man.  The  name  seemed  to  rouse  the  old  soldier  within  him  ; 
he  did  not  wait  for  another  word  from  me,  but  seized  my  hand 
in  both  of  his,  and  cried,  '  That's  the  man,  that's  the  name  j 
do  you  know  him  ?  '  " 

While  carrying  on  such  noble  -work,  Whitman  was 
keeping  his  vow  by  living  with  new  austerity.  He  oc 
cupied  a  little  room  in  one  lodging-house  or  another, 
by  preference  near  to  the  O'Connors,  who  had  become 
his  fast  friends.  For  some  months  they  insisted  on 
his  taking  two  meals  a  day  with  them  ;  afterwards  he 
shifted  for  himself,  getting  his  own  breakfast  of  toast 
and  tea,  dining  for  a  few  cents  at  a  humble  restaurant, 
and  supping  lightly  in  his  own  room.  His  personal 
expenditures,  always  small,  were  now  reduced  to  an 
absolute  minimum.  His  pleasures  he  took  in  such 


96  WALT    WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

walks  in  the  vicinity  as  he  could  find  opportunity  for, 
and  in  the  society  of  the  O'Connors,  with  whom  he 
often  dined  on  Sundays,  and  around  whom  centred  a 
wholesome  circle,  which  included  C.  W.  Eldridge,  his 
former  publisher,  John  Burroughs,  and  Edmund  C. 
Stedman,  then  clerks  in  the  Government  service.  Be 
tween  Whitman  and  Burroughs  in  particular  there 
sprang  up  a  deep  and  lasting  friendship.  Thus  passed 
the  years  1863  and  1864,  and  part  of  1865,  with  the 
exception  of  a  month  in  the  autumn  of  1863  and  the 
whole  latter  part  of  1864,  when  the  state  of  his  health 
forced  him  back  to  Brooklyn  for  rest  and  recuperation. 
In  the  midst  of  such  labours  there  was  no  time  for 
literary  composition,  and  his  records  of  this  period  are 
contained  only  in  a  few  letters  to  the  New  York  and 
Brooklyn  papers,  in  the  many  blood-stained  and  tear- 
spotted  little  books  in  which  he  kept  memoranda 
about  his  patients,  and  in  the  few  letters  to  his  mother 
which  chanced  to  be  preserved,  and  which  were  after 
his  death  published  by  Dr.  Bucke  under  the  title  of 
The  Wound  Dresser.  They  were  written  in  haste,  in 
a  homely,  unformed,  almost  illiterate  fashion,  reveal 
ing  in  every  page  the  degree  to  which  all  attention  to 
style,  all  fineness  and  decoration  of  expression,  were 
being  burnt  out  of  the  man  in  this  crucible  of  passion 
ate  sympathy,  leaving  only  the  bare  and  crude  state 
ments  of  actual  fact  and  feeling.  But  they  were  full 
of  tender  affection  for  the  aged  mother,  anxious  for 
George  in  the  army  and  Walt  in  the  hospital,  for 
Andrew  dying  of  consumption,  and  Jeff  with  reduced 
pay  and  seemingly  on  the  point  of  being  drafted. 
His  letters  gave  her  good  tidings  of  himself  and 
George,  wise  counsel  about  those  at  home,  and  tender 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  97 

messages  for  his  brothers  and  his  sister  and  sisters-in- 
law,  and  the  little  niece  he  loved  so  much.  One  can 
not  read  them  without  rich  tribute  to  his  sterling 
soundness  and  fineness  of  feeling  and  judgment. 

Meanwhile  his  own  magnificent  health  was  break 
ing.  Previously  illness  had  been  absolutely  unknown 
to  him.  But  the  insufficient  nourishment,  the  intense, 
moist  heat  of  the  Washington  summers,  indoor  life,  in 
terrupted  rest,  poisonous  contagion  from  wound  dress 
ing,  were  all  draining  his  vigour.  He  was  at  one  time 
infected  through  a  cut  in  his  hand,  and  the  poison 
seems  to  have  pa'ssed  deeply  into  the  enfeebled  sys 
tem.  Malaria,  too,  had  eaten  into  his  good  red  blood. 
Worse  perhaps  than  all  was  the  sight  of  so  much  and 
such  terrible  suffering.  Like  most  men  who  combine 
a  phlegmatic  exterior  with  a  sensitive  imagination,  the 
after  effects  of  his  experiences  were  far  greater  than 
the  immediate  results.  "It  is  curious,"  he  wrote  to 
his  mother,  "  when  I  am  present  at  the  most  appalling 
things  —  deaths,  operations,  sickening  wounds  (per 
haps  full  of  maggots)  —  I  do  not  fail,  although  my 
sympathies  are  very  much  excited,  but  keep  singu 
larly  cool ;  but  often  hours  afterward,  perhaps  when 
I  am  home  or  out  walking  alone,  I  feel  sick  and  actu 
ally  tremble  when  I  recall  the  thing  and  have  it  in 
my  mind  again  before  me."  Again :  "  Mother,  I  see 
awful  things.  I  expect  one  of  these  days,  if  I  live,  I 
shall  have  awful  thoughts  and  dreams  —  but  it  is 
such  a  great  thing  to  be  able  to  do  some  real  good; 
assuage  these  horrible  pains  and  wounds,  and  save 
life  even  —  that's  the  only  thing  that  keeps  a  fellow 
up."  And  in  other  letters:  "Mother,  it  seems  not 
men,  but  a  lot  of  devils  and  butchers,  butchering  one 

H 


98  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

another.  ...  I  get  almost  frightened  at  the  world.  .  .  . 
Oh,  it  is  terrible,  and  getting  worse,  worse,  worse." 
To  this  heart  of  love,  indeed,  the  war  was  becoming 
insupportable.  To  an  ardent  Abolitionist  it  was  a  war 
for  the  liberation  of  a  race,  in  which  no  sacrifice  could 
be  too  great ;  but  Whitman  saw  only  the  frightful  and 
meaningless  waste  of  life. 

From  time  to  time  during  the  war  Whitman  thought 
of  his  old  scheme  of  lecturing.  For  himself,  as  he 
wrote  to  his  mother,  "  it  don't  seem  to  me  it  makes  so 
much  difference  about  worldly  successes  (beyond  just 
enough  to  eat  and  drink  and  shelter,  in  the  mod- 
eratest  limits)  any  more,  since  the  last  four  months  of 
my  life  especially,  and  that  merely  to  live,  and  have 
one  fair  meal  a  day,  is  enough."  But  "  I  think  some 
thing  of  commencing  a  series  of  lectures  and  reading, 
etc.,  through  different  cities  of  the  North,  to  supply 
myself  with  the  funds  for  my  hospital  and  soldiers' 
visits,  as  I  do  not  like  to  be  beholden  to  the  medium  of 
others."  Time  and  need  pressed,  however,  and  the 
plan  came  to  naught. 

But  he  had  not  wholly  forgotten  his  poems.  He 
asked  his  mother  to  look  carefully  after  his  papers, 
"  especially  the  copy  of  Leaves  of  Grass  covered  in 
blue  paper,  and  the  little  MS.  book  Drum-Taps,  and 
the  MS.  tied  up  in  the  square,  spotted  (stone-paper) 
loose  covers  —  I  want  them  all  carefully  kept."  In 
his  brief  absence  in  Brooklyn,  in  November,  1863, 
he  wrote  to  Mr.  Eldridge,  "I  feel  to  devote  myself 
more  and  more  to  the  work  of  my  life,  which  is  mak 
ing  poems.  I  must  bring  out  Drum-Taps.  I  must 
be  continually  bringing  out  poems  —  now  is  the  hey 
day —  I  shall  range  along  the  high  plateau  of  my 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  99 

life  and  capacity  for  a  f  ew'years  now,  and  then  swiftly 
descend.  The  life  here  in  the  cities,  and  the  objects, 
etc.,  of  most,  seem  to  me  very  flippant  and  shallow 
somehow  since  I  returned  this  time.  .  .  ."  And  in 
his  convalescence  in  Brooklyn  at  the  end  of  1864,  he 
wrote  again,  "  I  intend  to  move  heaven  and  earth  to 
publish  my  Drum-Taps  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  go 
around."  Mr.  Trowbridge,  to  whom  he  had  read 
parts  of  it,  tried  to  find  a  publisher  in  Boston,  but  his 
quest  was  unsuccessful,  and  finally  Whitman  under 
took  the  volume  at  his  own  expense.  It  was  print 
ing  in  April,  1865,  when  the  news  came  of  Lincoln's 
assassination.  At  once  he  set  himself  to  the  com  posi 
tion  of  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloomed 
and  0  Captain !  my  Captain !  and  these  with  several 
other  verses  he  issued  in  a  small  supplementary 
volume,  Sequel  to  Drum-Taps,  which  appeared  in 
Washington  late  in  the  same  year.  Copies  of  it  were 
also  bound  up  with  the  remainder  of  Drum-Taps. 

Whitman  himself  was  at  that  time  inclined  to 
consider  Drum-Taps  as  superior  to  Leaves  of  Grass, 
"as  a  work  of  art  and  from  the  more  simple  and 
winning  nature  of  the  subject  and  also  because  I  have 
in  it  only  succeeded  to  my  satisfaction  in  removing 
all  superfluity  —  verbal  superfluity,  I  mean."  "  But," 
he  continues  in  the  same  letter  to  Mr.  O'Connor, 
"I  am  perhaps  mainly  satisfied  with  Drum-Taps  be 
cause  it  delivers  my  ambition  of  the  task  that  has 
haunted  me,  namely,  to  express  in  a  poem  (and  in  the 
way  I  like,  which  is  not  at  all  by  directly  stating  it), 
the  pending  action  of  this  Time  and  Land  we  swim  in, 
with  all  their  large  conflicting  fluctuations  of  despair 
and  hope,  the  shiftings,  masses,  and  the  whirl  and 


100  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

deafening  din  (yet  over  all,  as  by  an  invisible  hand,  a 
definite  purport  and  idea),  with  the  unprecedented 
anguish  of  wounded  and  suffering,  the  beautiful  young 
men  in  wholesale  death  and  agony,  everything  some 
times  as  if  blood-color  and  dripping  blood.  The  book 
is  therefore  unprecedently  sad  (as  these  days  are,  are 
they  not  ?),  but  it  also  has  the  blast  of  the  trumpet 
and  the  drum  pounds  and  whirrs  in  it,  and  then  an 
undertone  of  sweetest  comradeship  and  human  love 
threads  its  steady  thread  inside  the  chaos  and  is  heard 
at  every  lull  and  interstice  thereof.  Truly  also,  it  has 
clear  notes  of  faith  and  triumph." 

With  this  judgment  all  will,  in  the  main,  agree. 
Not  only  is  the  subject-matter  more  simple  and  uni 
fied,  but  there  is  no  trace  of  the  turbulent  spirit  of  the 
earlier  works,  confessedly  egotistic,  exulting  in  the 
consciousness  of  its  just  realized  identity,  insisting  on 
the  necessity  and  sufficiency  of  carnal  love.  Here  is, 
instead,  a  purified  singer.  Only  two  short  pieces  of 
the  two  little  volumes,  when  Whitman  redistributed 
his  verse,  found  their  places  among  the  Children  of 
Adam,  and  these  are  in  essence  farewells  to  love  :  — 

"Out  of   the  rolling  ocean,  the  crowd,  came  a  drop  gently  to 

me, 

Whispering,  Hove  you,  before  long  I  die, 
I  have  traveVd  a  long  way,  merely  to  look  on  you,  to  touch  you, 
For  I  could  not  die  till  I  once  looked  on  you, 
For  I  feared  I  might  afterward  lose  you. 

"  (Now  we  have  met,  we  have  look'd,  we  are  safe  ; 
Return  in  peace  to  the  ocean,  my  love ; 
I  too  am  part  of  that  ocean,  my  love  —  we  are  not  so  much 

separated  ; 

Behold  the  great  rondure  — the  cohesion  of  all,  how  perfect! 
But  as  for  me,  for  you,  the  irresistible  sea  is  to  separate  us, 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP  -'(1851^873)  101 

As  for  an  hour,  carrying  us  diverse  —  yet  cannot  carry  us 

diverse  forever ; 
Be  not  impatient  —  a  little  space —  Know  you,  I  salute  the  air, 

the  ocean  and  the  land, 
Every  day,  at  sundown,  for  your  dear  sake,  my  love.) 

"I  heard  you,  solemn-sweet  pipes  of  the  organ,  as  last  Sunday 

morn  I  pass'd  the  church; 
Winds  of  autumn  !  —  as  I  walk'd  the  woods  at  dusk,  I  heard 

your  long-stretch 'd  sighs,  up  above,  so  mournful, 
I  heard  the  perfect  Italian  tenor,  singing  at  the  opera  — 

I  heard  the  soprano  in  the  midst  of  the  quartet  singing ; 
.  .  .  Heart  of  my  love  !  —  you  too  I  heard,  murmuring  low, 

through  one  of  the  wrists  around  my  head  ; 
Heard  the  pulse  of  you,  when  all  was  still,  ringing  little  bells 

last  night  under  my  ear." 

Moreover,  the  two  volumes  have  an  extraordinary 
unity  and  completeness,  in  that  they  represent  not 
only  the  war  itself  as  Whitman  saw  it,  but  the  war  in 
its  connection  with  the  past  and  the  future.  It  came  to 
him  as  from  the  clear  sky,  with  inconceivable  sudden 
ness  and  surprise.  He  had  been  dreaming  of  the 
brotherhood  of  man,  seeing  only  those  signs  of  the 
times  that  symbolized  the  drawing  together  of  nations. 
In  the  year  of  meteors,  1859-1860,  he  had  seen  the 
wonderful  Great  Eastern,  token  of  the  increasing 
facility  of  transportation;  he  had  seen  the  crown 
prince  of  England,  token  of  amity  and  blood  brother 
hood  with  the  East :  — 

"And  you  would  I  sing,  fair  stripling  1  welcome  to  you  from 
me,  sweet  boy  of  England! 

Remember  you  surging  Manhattan's  crowds,as  you  pass'd  with 
your  cortege  of  nobles  ? 

There  in  the  crowds  stood  I,  and  singled  you  out  with  attach 
ment ; 


102  WALT   \VHITMAN  [CHAP. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  loved  you.  .  .  .   (And  so  go  forth, 

little  song, 

Far  over  sea  speed  like  an  arrow,  carrying  my  love  all  folded, 
And  find  in  his  palace  the  youth  I  love,  and  drop  these  lines 

at  his  feet.)" 

He  had  seen  the  first  Japanese  envoys :  — 

"  Over  sea,  hither  from  Niphon, 
Courteous,  the  Princes  of  Asia,  swart-cheek'd  princes, 
First-comers,  guests,  two-sworded  princes, 
Lesson-giving  princes,  leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches, 

bare-headed,  impassive, 
This  day  they  ride  through  Manhattan." 

And  both  together  he  accepted  as  marking  the  place 
that  his  country  held  and  was  to  hold  among  the 
powers  of  the  world :  — 

"  And  you,  Libertad  of  the  world  1 

You  shall  sit  in  the  middle,  well-pois'd,  thousands  of  years; 
As  to-day,  from  one  side,  the  nobles  of  Asia  come  to  you; 
As  to-morrow,  from  the  other  side,  the  Queen  of  England 
sends  her  eldest  son  to  you. 

"The  sign  is  reversing,  the  orb  is  enclosed, 
The  ring  is  circled,  the  journey  is  done; 
The  box-lid  is  but  perceptibly  open'd  —  nevertheless  the  per 
fume  pours  copiously  out  of  the  whole  box." 

From  such  dreamy  hopes  that  humanity  was  "  form 
ing  en-rnasse,"  and  that  "  the  earth,  restive,  confronts 
a  new  era,"  he  is  awakened  by  the  imperious  drums,  — 

"  So  strong  you  thump,  O  terrible  drums  —  so  loud  you  bugles 
blow,  —  " 

that  call  the  nation  to  arms  :  — 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  103 

"Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading ; 
Forty  years  as  a  pageant — till  unawares,  the  Lady  of  this 

teeming  and  turbulent  city, 

Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable  wealth, 
With  her  million  children  around  her  —  suddenly, 
At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  south, 
Incens'd,  struck  with  clench 'd  hand  the  pavement. 

"  A  shock  electric  —  the  night  sustain'd  it; 
Till  with  ominous  hum,  our  hive  at  day-break  pour'd  out  its 

myriads. 
From  the  houses  then,  and  the  workshops,  and  through  all 

the  doorways, 
Leapt  they  tumultuous  —  and  lo  !  Manhattan  arming." 

But,  instead  of  feeling  himself  perturbed  by  this 
rude  shattering  of  his  humanitarian  ideals,  the  poet  is 
thrilled  by  the  thought  that  it  is  the  real  America 
which  he  now  beholds,  an  aroused  America,  North  and 
South.  He  had  long  been  sick  of  the  petty  super 
ficiality  of  city  life :  — 

"  The  cities  I  loved  so  well,  I  abandon' d  and  left  —  I  sped  to 

the  certainties  suitable  to  me  ; 
Hungering,    hungering,  hungering,  for  primal  energies,  and 

Nature's  dauntlessness, 

I  refresh' d  myself  with  it  only,  I  could  relish  it  only  ; 
I  waited  the  bursting  forth  of  the  pent  fire  —  on  the  water 

and  air  I  waited  long ; 
—  But  now  I  no  longer  wait  —  I  am  fully  satisfied  —  I  am 

glutted ; 
I  have  witness'd  the  true  lightning — I  have  witness'd  my 

cities  electric ; 
I  have  lived  to  behold  man  burst  forth,  and  warlike  America 

rise  ; 
Hence  will  I  seek  no  more  the  food  of  the  northern  solitary 

wilds, 
No  more  on  the  mountains  roam,  or  sail  the  stormy  sea." 


104  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Indeed,  the  citizen  soldier  who  surprised  the  world 
by  his  bravery  and  endurance  was  the  American  he 
had  foreshadowed  in  his  apotheosis  of  simple  workmen 
who,  bound  together  by  kinship  and  common  interests, 
constitute  the  state  :  "  for  who  except  myself  have  yet 
conceiv'd  what  your  children  en-masse  really  are  ?" 

And  then  the  war  begins.  There  are  brilliant 
sketches  of  various  scenes,  finely  and  clearly  drawn, 
impressive  in  their  simplicity  and  intensity :  an  army 
corps  on  the  march,  cavalry  crossing  a  ford,  a 
bivouac  on  a  mountain  side,  a  vigil  by  the  dead  on  the 
field  of  battle,  an  improvised  hospital  in  the  woods  by 
night,  and  those  who  have  died  for  the  redemption  of 
their  fellows  :  — 

"Then  to  the  third  —  a  face  nor  child,  nor  old,  very  calm,  as 

of  beautiful  yellow-white  ivory ; 
Young  man,  I  think  I  know  you  —  I  think  this  face  of  yours 

is  the  face  of  the  Christ  himself ; 
Dead  and  divine,  and  brother  of  all,  and  here  again  he  lies." 

And,  the  war  over,  the  poignant  memories,  the  dread 
ful  images,  that  perpetuate  themselves  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  have  participated  in  the  great  conflict. 
In  the  dead  silence  of  the  night,  the  artillery  soldier, 
lying  wakeful  at  home,  sees  passing  before  his  eyes  all 
the  details  of  the  engagement.  The  nurse,  like  Whit 
man  himself,  beholds  again  the  long  hospital  wards  :  — 

"  Thus  in  silence,  in  dreams'  projections, 
Returning,  resuming,  I  thread  my  way  through  the  hospitals ; 
The  hurt  and  wounded  I  pacify  with  soothing  hand, 
I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night  —  some  are  so  young; 
Some  suffer  so  much  —  I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad  ; 
(Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  cross'd 

and  rested, 
Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  lips.)" 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  105 

Thus,  by  successive  movements,  this  great  sym 
phony,  the  symbolic  representation  of  the  war,  passes 
to  the  finale,  President  Lincoln' 's  Burial  Hymn,  — 
strange  and  beautiful  hymn,  in  which  his  name  is  not 
mentioned,  nor  is  there  more  than  a  faint  reference  to 
him  ;  a  threnody,  therefore,  of  all  that  had  died  nobly 
in  the  colossal  struggle,  symbolized  through  him.  A 
poem  of  three  themes,  it  sings  of  the  lilac  blossoms, 
sweet  and  homely  and  transient ;  of  the  evening  star, 
shining  luminous  for  all  men,  but  slowly  sinking  to  its 
rest;  of  the  hermit  thrush,  Nature's  one  foreboding 
singer  of  the  wilderness  at  twilight.  The  flower  of 
the  dooryard  fades  at  the  appointed  time,  the  star 
disappears  according  to  its  season,  the  bird  sings  of 
death  as  the  "  deliveress  "  of  mankind,  for  the  poet's 
trust  is  as  strong  as  his  love,  and  he  contemplates 
death  with  gratitude  and  with  praise. 

Further  analysis  fails.  The  poem  lies  almost  in 
the  realm  of  music,  but  scarcely  more  so  than  many 
or  most  of  those  contained  in  the  two  joined  volumes. 
They  present  the  war  without  reference  to  space  or 
time.  There  is  no  mention  of  North  or  South,  of 
purpose  or  result,  of  slavery  or  freedom,  of  states' 
rights  or  nationalism.  All  Whitman  saw  and  suffered 
is  transmuted  into  a  symphonic  tragedy,  purging 
the  soul  of  pity  and  fear  by  the  excitation  of  these 
same  passions,  and  leaving  it  full  of  hope  and  tender 
ness. 

Last  of  all  we  find  the  one  personal  note  in  the 
volumes.  Whitman's  self-sacrifice  was  not  without 
its  effect.  He  found  himself  the  better  soldier, 
pledged  anew  to  a  warfare  with  his  weaker  self :  — 


106  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

u  Ah  poverties,  wincings,  and  sulky  retreats ! 
Ah- you  foes  that  in  conflict  have  overcome  me  ! 
(For  what  is  my  life,  or  any  man's  life,  but  a  conflict  with 

foes  —  the  old,  the  incessant  war  ?) 

You  degradations  —  you  tussle  with  passions  and  appetites ; 
You  smarts  from  dissatisfied  friendships,   (ah  wounds,  the 

sharpest  of  all ;) 

You  toil  of  painful  and  choked  articulations  —  you  mean 
nesses  ; 
You  shallow  tongue-talks  at  tables,  (my  tongue  the  shallowest 

of  any ;) 
You  broken  resolutions,  you  racking  angers  ;  you  smother' d 

ennuis ; 
Ah,  think  not  you  finally  triumph  —  My  real  self  has  yet  to 

come  forth ; 
It  shall  yet  march  forth  o'ermastering,  till  all  lies  beneath 

me; 
It  shall  yet  stand  up  the  soldier  of  unquestion'd  victory." 

Early  in  1863  Whitman  had  secured  letters  of  recom 
mendation  to  prominent  politicians,  with  the  inten 
tion  of  applying  for  a  clerkship  in  some  Government 
bureau,  planning  to  support  himself  by  such  labour 
while  continuing  his  work  in  the  hospitals.  He  had 
interviews  with  some  of  these  men,  but  was  impressed 
by  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  an  appointment,  and  de 
sisted  from  his  efforts.  Late  in  the  same  year,  Mr. 
Trowbridge,  who  was  staying  in  Washington  as  the 
guest  of  Secretary  Chase,  discovered  that  Whitman 
had  letters  from  Emerson  to  Chase  and  Seward,  and 
at  once  took  up  the  matter  with  his  host,  who,  while 
welcoming  Emerson's  letter  for  the  sake  of  the  auto 
graph,  thought  it  impossible  to  give  a  clerkship  to  a 
man  who  had  written  a  "  notorious  "  book.  In  1865, 
however,  Whitman  made  a  formal  application,  and 
was,  in  February,  assigned  a  position  in  the  Indian 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  107 

Bureau  of  the  Department  of  the  Interior,  where  he 
had  a  few  hours  of  work  each  day,  good  pay,  and  could 
still  continue  his  hospital  visits  in  his  leisure  hours. 
During  his  short  time  of  service  a  large  deputation  of 
Indians  visited  Washington,  greatly  to  the  delight  of 
Whitman,  who  observed  them  carefully,  and  later 
made  interesting  memoranda  of  the  impression  made 
upon  him  by  their  physical  grace,  dignity,  and  beauty. 

In  June,  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior,  James  Harlan, 
learned  that  Whitman  had  in  his  desk  an  immoral  book. 
This  was  a  copy  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass  which 
Whitman  was  revising  for  a  new  edition.  After  the 
office  was  closed  for  the  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Harlan 
opened  Whitman's  desk,  examined  the  book,  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  it  contained  indecent  passages,  and 
curtly  notified  Whitman,  on  June  30,  that  from  and 
after  that  date  his  services  would  be  dispensed  with. 
No  reason  was  given. 

Whitman  himself  would  naturally  have  been  un 
willing  to  apply  for  reinstatement  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  but  his  friends  were  indignant  and  not 
disposed  to  let  the  matter  drop.  Mr.  J.  H.  Ashton,  then 
assistant  United  States  attorney,  went  personally  to 
Mr.  Harlan  in  protest.  The  Secretary  acknowledged 
that  Whitman  performed  his  duties  faithfully  and  com 
petently,  but,  on  the  evidence  of  the  book,  declared  him 
to  be  an  immoral  man.  Mr.  Ashton,  who  had  known 
Whitman  for  some  years,  was  easily  able  to  show  him 
how  far  he  had  misjudged  Whitman's  character;  but 
though  convinced  on  this  point,  Mr.  Harlan  was  firm 
in  his  refusal  to  have  in  his  department  the  author  of 
the  Leaves  of  Grass.  Mr.  Ashton,  however,  was  for 
tunately  able  to  procure  the  immediate  transfer  of 


108  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Whitman  to  his  own  department,  and  the  incident 
seemed  closed.  Outside  Washington  it  had  attracted 
no  attention. 

Whitman's  impetuous  friend  O'Connor  was,  however, 
not  content  to  let  what  seemed  to  him  an  act  of  great 
injustice  pass  unpunished,  and  he  determined  to  appeal 
to  the  sympathy  of  the  public.  In  a  brilliant,  eloquent, 
and  even  learned  pamphlet,  dated  September  2,  1865, 
but  not  published  until  several  months  later,  he  held 
the  offending  official  up  to  the  scorn  of  the  beholder. 
It  was  the  work  of  an  orator  rather  than  a  man  of 
letters  —  a  tirade,  a  philippic,  a  torrent  of  burning 
words,  in  which  the  love  of  sound  tended  to  overpower 
the  judgment.  The  title — The  Good  Gray  Poet  — 
was  a  happy  inspiration.  He  began  by  describing  the 
poet's  picturesque  and  beneficent  aspect,  —  "  the  flow 
ing  hair  and  fleecy  beard,  both  very  gray,  and  temper 
ing  with  a  look  of  age  the  youthful  aspect  of  one 
who  is  but  forty-five,"  —  and  went  on  to  relate  Lincoln's 
exclamation  on  first  seeing  him  (  "  Well,  he  looks  like 
a  Man  "),  the  instinctive  trust  and  admiration  shown 
him  by  men  of  the  people,  and  his  services  during  the 
war.  Then  he  narrated  the  incidents  connected  with 
Whitman's  discharge  by  Mr.  Harlan,  and  Mr.  Harlan's 
defence  that  he  was  the  author  of  an  indecent  and  im 
moral  book.  That  the  Leaves  of  Grass  was  nothing 
of  the  sort  he  attempted  to  show  negatively  by  citing 
a  multitude  of  the  great  authors  of  antiquity  and  of 
the  renaissance,  all  containing  passages  to  which  Mr. 
Harlan  would  object.  If  you  stamp  Whitman  as  in 
decent,  he  maintained,  you  must  extend  the  condem 
nation  to  pretty  much  every  author  of  reputation  up  to 
very  recent  times. 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  109 

The  issue  thus  raised  was  unfortunately  fated  for  a 
long  time  to  hold  the  attention  of  the  critic  and  the 
public  whenever  Whitman's  name  was  mentioned.  For 
many  years  the  conflict  was  heated  though  intermittent. 
Not  only  Mr.  Harlan,  but  the  great  majority  of  readers, 
held  the  simple  doctrine  that  all  allusions  to  sexual  con 
gress  were  excluded  from  publicity,  and  hence  from 
literature.  Such  things  were  tacenda.  Other  races  and 
other  times  had  other  customs,  and  they  admitted  the 
blots  on  many  a  fair  page  of  earlier  literature  ;  but  they 
would  countenance  no  more  improprieties.  O'Connor's 
negative  defence  laid  Whitman  open  to  a  wholly  false 
impression  by  tacitly  classing  him  with  the  licentious 
authors  of  the  renaissance.  For  an  essential  difference 
at  once  strikes  the  thoughtful  reader  of  to-day,  namely, 
that  Whitman's  audacious  references,  his  apotheosis  of 
physical  love,  are  not  licentious  or  lascivious;  they 
deal  with  the  subject,  not  slyly,  but  boldly;  not  mirth 
fully,  but  seriously  and  solemnly.  From  this  point  of 
view,  the  opposite  doctrine  has  come  in  the  course  of 
half  a  century  to  be  simply  that  under  certain  circum 
stances  art  may  admit  such  topics ;  that  they  are  not 
always  tacenda,  but  may  sometimes  be  canenda.  But 
this  change  of  attitude  on  the  part  of  a  minority  was 
long  in  coming,  as  was  the  feeling  that  the  topic  did 
not  by  any  means  involve  the  whole  of  Whitman's  art ; 
and  in  the  meantime  Whitman's  friends  were  not  much 
helping  his  cause  by  their  ill-advised  defence  on  these 
lines. 

In  the  remainder  of  the  famous  little  pamphlet, 
O'Connor  was  on  surer  ground.  He  describes  the  book 
positively  instead  of  negatively,  and  hails  it  as  the 
beginning  of  a  new  movement  in  American  literature. 


110  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

His  praise  is  extravagant  in  both  form  and  substance, 
but  time  is  justifying  in  the  main  his  double  claim 
that  Whitman's  was  a  new  way,  and  that  he  was  a 
forerunner  in  that  he  wrote,  to  a  large  degree,  spon 
taneously,  without  foreign  models,  and  on  purely 
American  subjects,  in  contrast,  for  example,  with 
Longfellow, — though  O'Connor  does  not  make  the 
comparison,  —  who  often  wrote  on  American  subjects, 
but  who  had  found  his  methods  of  treatment  to  a  large 
extent  in  foreign  literature,  and  whose  acquaintance 
with  his  native  country  was  obviously  so  slight  as 
scarcely  to  make  him  a  special  representative  of  it. 
Here  again  the  contest  of  opposing  views  was  to  be 
spirited,  but  it  was  productive  of  many  good  results, 
and  the  consensus  of  opinion  is  slowly  shaping  itself, 
with  many  limitations,  along  the  lines  of  O'Connor's 
argument,  from  which  we  quote  briefly  :  — 

"  What  is  this  poem,  for  the  giving  of  which  to  America  and 
the  world,  and  for  that  alone,  its  author  has  been  dismissed 
with  ignominy  from  a  Government  office  ?  It  is  a  poem  which 
Schiller  might  have  hailed  as  the  noblest  specimen  of  naive  litera 
ture,  worthy  of  a  place  beside  Homer.  It  is,  in  the  first  place,  a 
work  purely  and  entirely  American,  autochthonic,  sprung  from 
our  own  soil  ;  no  savor  of  Europe  nor  of  the  past,  nor  of  any 
other  literature  in  it ;  a  vast  carol  of  our  own  land,  and  of  its 
Present  and  Future  ;  the  strong  and  haughty  psalm  of  the  Re 
public.  There  is  not  one  other  book,  I  care  not  whose,  of  which 
this  can  be  said.  I  weigh  my  words  and  have  considered  well. 
Every  other  book  by  an  American  author  implies,  both  in  form 
and  substance,  I  cannot  even  say  the  European,  but  the  British 
mind.  The  shadow  of  Temple  Bar  and  Arthur's  Seat  lies  dark 
on  all  our  letters.  Intellectually,  we  are  still  a  dependency  of 
Great  Britain,  and  one  word  —  colonial  —  comprehends  and 
stamps  our  literature.  In  no  literary  form,  except  our  news 
papers,  has  there  been  anything  distinctively  American.  .  .  . 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  111 

This  literature  has  often  commanding  merits,  and  much  of  it  is 
very  precious  to  me  ;  but  in  respect  to  its  national  character, 
all  that  can  be  said  is  that  it  is  tinged,  more  or  less  deeply,  with 
America  ;  and  the  foreign  model,  the  foreign  standards,  the 
foreign  ideas,  dominate  over  it  all. 

"  At  most,  our  best  books  were  but  struggling  beams  ;  behold 
in  Leaves  of  Grass  the  immense  and  absolute  sunrise  !  It  is 
all  our  own  !  The  nation  is  in  it !  In  form  a  series  of  chants, 
in  substance  it  is  an  epic  of  America.  It  is  distinctively  and 
utterly  American.  Without  model,  without  imitation,  without 
reminiscence,  it  is  evolved  entirely  from  our  own  polity  and 
popular  life." 

O'Connor's  hero-worshipping  crusade  was  not  im 
mediately  productive  of  good  results.  It  told  in  the 
long  run,  for  it  helped  to  set  the  issues  squarely  be 
fore  the  public;  but  it  made  few  converts,  and  the 
comments  of  the  press  and  of  critics  were,  generally 
speaking,  unfavourable.  The  old  charges  were  again 
brought  forward,  though  there  was  noticeable  a  grow 
ing  warmth  of  personal  feeling  towards  Whitman,  and 
a  disposition  to  acknowledge  many  merits  in  his  verse. 
The  most  interesting  reply  which  the  pamphlet  called 
forth  was  the  following  characteristic  letter  from 
Matthew  Arnold :  — 

ATHENEUM  CLUB,  PALL  MALL,  S.W., 

Sept.  16,  1866. 

"DEAR  SIR,  —  I  have  been  absent  from  London  for  some 
months,  and  on  my  return  I  find  your  note  of  the  4th  of  June 
with  the  two  books  you  have  been  good  enough  to  send  me. 
Their  predecessors,  which  you  mention,  I  do  not  find. 

"  Mr.  Harlan  is  now,  I  believe,  out  of  office,  but  had  he  still 
remained  in  office  I  can  imagine  nothing  less  likely  to  make 
him  reconsider  his  decision  respecting  your  friend  than  the  inter 
ference  of  foreign  expostulators  in  the  matter.  I  have  read 
your  statement  with  interest,  and  I  do  not  contest  Mr.  Walt 


112  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Whitman's  powers  and  originality.  I  doubt,  however,  whether 
here,  too,  or  in  France,  or  in  Germany,  a  public  functionary 
would  not  have  had  to  pay  for  the  pleasure  of  being  so  out 
spoken  the  same  penalty  which  your  friend  has  paid  in  America. 
As  to  the  general  question  of  Mr.  Walt  Whitman's  poetical 
achievements,  you  will  think  that  it  savours  of  our  decrepit 
old  Europe  when  I  add  that  while  you  think  it  is  highest  merit 
that  he  is  so  unlike  anyone  else,  to  me  this  seems  to  be  his 
demerit;  no  one  can  afford  in  literature  to  trade  merely  on  his 
own  bottom  and  to  take  no  account  of  what  the  other  ages  and 
nations  have  acquired  :  a  great  original  literature  America  will 
never  get  in  this  way,  and  her  intellect  must  inevitably  consent 
to  come,  in  a  considerable  measure,  into  the  European  move 
ment.  That  she  may  do  this  and  yet  be  an  independent  intel 
lectual  power,  not  merely  as  you  say  an  intellectual  colony  of 
Europe,  I  cannot  doubt;  and  it  is  on  her  doing  this,  and  not  on 
her  displaying  an  eccentric  and  violent  originality  that  wise 
Americans  should  in  my  opinion  set  their  desires. 

"  With  many  thanks  for  the  good  will  towards  me  which  you 
express,  I  am,  dear  sir, 

"  Very  faithfully  yours, 

"  MATTHEW  ABNOLD." 
W.  D.  O'CONNOR,  ESQ., 
Washington,  D.C., 
United  States. 

Meanwhile  Whitman  was  living  quietly  as  a  Govern 
ment  clerk  of  the  third  class,  drawing  sixteen  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  —  a  large  sum  for  him,  or  at  that  time 
for  any  man  of  simple  tastes.  Some  of  his  salary  he 
had  put  in  the  savings  bank ;  the  residue,  after  his 
regular  expenses  were  met,  went  to  his  hospital  work, 
to  his  friends,  or  to  beggars,  for  whom  he  always  had 
a  few  pennies.  His  work  was  not  arduous,  and  he 
was  free  from  great  responsibility  and  the  necessity  of 
initiative.  His  desk  was  by  the  window  in  the  Treas 
ury  Building,  with  a  charming  view  over  the  river, 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  113 

and  he  often  spent  the  evening  reading  in  his  office. 
He  lived  in  a  comfortable  boarding-house.  After  his 
day's  work  was  over  and  on  holidays,  he  took  long 
and  leisurely  walks  in  the  country,  and  he  rode  much 
on  the  horse-cars.  On  Sundays  it  was  his  custom  to 
breakfast  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burroughs  and  to  take 
tea  with  the  O'Connors  ;  between  the  two  visits  he 
made,  until  the  end  of  1866,  a  little  hospital  round. 
It  was  a  quiet,  thoughtful,  leisurely  life,  a  period  in 
which  to  rest  after  the  strain  of  the  preceding  years, 
and  to  store  up  energy  for  the  next  emergency  —  soon 
to  come  —  in  which  it  would  be  required. 

His  circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances  among 
people  of  distinction  was  by  no  means  small,  and 
among  ordinary  folk  it  was  very  large  indeed.  Such 
friends  knew  little  or  nothing  about  his  writings,  but 
they  liked  him  and  his  unobtrusive  ways.  Indeed,  he 
had  become  in  a  sense  a  public  character,  partly  on 
account  of  his  striking  appearance  and  unusual  attire, 
but  mainly  because  he  was  felt  instinctively  to  be,  as 
it  were,  the  friend  of  every  one.  He  had,  moreover,  a 
set  of  friends  in  what  we  might  call  the  other  world, 
the  world  of  working  people,  a  world  into  which  few 
of  us  actually  penetrate  except  by  proxy.  John  Bur 
roughs  has  recorded  a  characteristic  incident  of  those 
days : — 

"I  give  here  a  glimpse  of  him  in  Washington  on  a  Navy 
Yard  horse  car  one  summer  day  at  sundown.  The  car 
is  crowded  and  suffocatingly  hot,  with  many  passengers 
on  the  rear  platform,  and  among  them  a  bearded,  florid- 
faced  man,  elderly,  but  agile,  resting  against  the  dash,  by 
the  side  of  the  young  conductor,  and  evidently  his  intimate 
friend.  The  man  wears  a  broad-brim  white  hat.  Among  the 
jam  inside  near  the  door,  a  young  Englishwoman,  of  the  work- 


114  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

ing  class,  with  two  children,  has  had  trouble  a!l  the  way  with 
the  youngest,  a  strong,  fat,  fretful,  bright  babe  of  fourteen 
or  fifteen  months,  who  bids  fair  to  worry  the  mother  com 
pletely  out,  besides  becoming  a  howling  nuisance  to  everybody. 
As  the  car  tugs  around  Capitol  Hill  the  young  one  is  more 
demoniac  than  ever,  and  the  flushed  and  perspiring  mother  is 
just  ready  to  burst  into  tears  with  weariness  and  vexation. 
The  car  stops  at  the  top  of  the  Hill  to  let  off  most  of  the  rear 
platform  passengers,  and  the  white-hatted  man  reaches  inside 
and  gently  but  firmly  disengaging  the  babe  from  its  stifling 
place  in  the  mother's  arms,  takes  it  in  his  own,  and  out  in  the 
air.  The  astonished  and  excited  child,  partly  in  fear,  partly  in 
satisfaction  at  the  change,  stops  its  screaming,  and  as  the  man 
adjusts  it  more  securely  to  his  breast,  plants  its  chubby  hands 
against  him,  and  pushing  off  as  far  as  it  can,  gives  a  good  long 
look  squarely  in  his  face  —  then  as  if  satisfied  snuggles  down 
with  its  head  on  his  neck,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  is  sound 
and  peacefully  asleep  without  another  whimper,  utterly  fagged 
out.  A  square  or  so  more  and  the  conductor,  who  has  had  an 
unusually  hard  and  uninterrupted  day's  work,  gets  off  for  his 
first  meal  and  relief  since  morning.  And  now  the  white-hatted 
man,  holding  the  slumbering  babe  also,  acts  as  conductor  the 
rest  of  the  distance,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  passengers  inside, 
who  have  by  this  time  thinned  out  greatly.  He  makes  a 
very  good  conductor,  too,  pulling  the  bell  to  stop  or  go  on  as 
needed,  and  seems  to  enjoy  the  occupation.  The  babe  mean 
while  rests  its  fat  cheeks  close  on  his  neck  and  gray  beard,  one 
of  his  arms  vigilantly  surrounding  it,  while  the  other  signals, 
from  time  to  time,  with  the  strap  ;  and  the  flushed  mother  in 
side  has  a  good  half  hour  to  breathe,  and  cool,  and  recover 
herself." 

By  such  open-hearted  kindness  and  friendliness 
Whitman  endeared  himself  to  working-men,  who 
recognized  in  him  at  once  a  kindred  spirit.  The  most 
notable  of  these  friendships  was  that  with  Peter 
Doyle,  a  simple,  manly,  and  affectionate  mechanic, 
thirty  years  younger  than  Whitman,  a  homeless 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  115 

soldier  of  the  Confederacy,  who,  freed  in  Washington 
on  parole,  became  a  street-car  conductor.  He  has  him 
self  told  the  story  of  his  first  meeting  with  Whit 
man:  — 

"  I  was  a  conductor.  The  night  was  very  stormy,  —  he  had 
been  over  to  see  Burroughs  before  he  came  down  to  take  the 
car  —  the  storm  was  awful.  Walt  had  his  blanket  —  it  was 
thrown  round  his  shoulders  —  he  seemed  like  an  old  sea-captain. 
He  was  the  only  passenger,  it  was  a  lonely  night,  so  I  thought 
I  would  go  in  and  talk  with  him.  Something  in  me  made  me 
do  it  and  something  in  him  drew  me  that  way.  He  used  to  say 
there  was  something  in  me  had  the  same  effect  on  him.  Any 
way,  I  went  into  the  car.  We  were  familiar  at  once  —  I  put 
my  hand  on  his  knee  —  we  understood.  He  did  not  get  out  at 
the  end  of  the  trip  —  in  fact  went  all  the  way  back  with  me. 
I  think  the  year  of  this  was  1866.  From  that  time  on  we  were 
the  biggest  sort  of  friends.  .  .  .  Walt  rode  with  me  often  — 
often  at  noon,  always  at  night.  He  rode  round  with  me  on  the 
last  trip  —  sometimes  rode  for  several  trips.  Everybody  knew 
him.  He  had  a  way  of  taking  the  measure  of  the  drivers' 
hands  —  had  calf -skin  gloves  made  for  them  every  winter  in 
Georgetown  —  these  gloves  were  his  personal  presents  to  the 
men.  He  saluted  the  men  on  the  other  cars  as  we  passed  — 
threw  up  his  hand.  They  cried  to  him,  '  Hullo,  Walt ! '  and 
he  would  reply,  '  Ah,  there  ! '  or  something  like.  He  was 
welcome  always  as  the  flowers  in  May.  Everybody  appreci 
ated  his  attentions,  and  he  seemed  to  appreciate  our  attentions 
to  him." 

Whitman  formed  not  a  few  such  friendships,  but 
that  with  Doyle  was  the  most  intimate  and  the  most 
enduring.  He  loved  him  as  a  father,  and  the  young 
man  responded  with  a  son's  affection.  Always  at  night 
Whitman  joined  Doyle  on  his  car  for  the  last  trip 
of  the  day,  and  after  that  was  over  they  supped  to 
gether,  and  sat  long  in  a  restaurant,  talking  not  of 
books  but  of  the  simple  things  of  life,  or  talking  not 


116  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

at  all.  "Like  as  not,"  said  Doyle  in  his  affectionate 
reminiscences,  "  I  would  go  to  sleep  —  lay  my  head  on 
my  hands  on  the  table.  Walt  would  stay  there,  wait, 
watch,  keep  me  undisturbed  —  would  wake  me  up 
when  the  hour  of  closing  came.  .  .  .  We  took  great 
walks  together  [particularly  on  moonlight  nights]  — 
off  towards  or  to  Alexandria,  often.  We  went  plodding 
along  the  road,  Walt  always  whistling  or  singing. 
We  would  talk  of  ordinary  matters.  He  would  recite 
poetry,  especially  Shakspere.  He  was  always  active, 
happy,  cheerful,  good-natured." 

When  Whitman  was  away  on  his  vacations  he  wrote 
Doyle  at  short  intervals,  and  by  good  fortune  these 
missives  were  preserved  by  Doyle,  and,  after  Whit 
man's  death,  were  published  by  Dr.  Bucke,  one  of 
Whitman's  executors,  under  the  appropriate  title  of 
Calamus.  The  letters  are  simplicity  itself,  and  reveal 
not  so  much  a  side  of  Whitman's  character  as  another 
personality.  It  is  amazing  to  consider  that  this  really 
great  thinker  and  poet,  capable  of  discussing  subjects 
of  national  or  universal  importance  with  grasp  and 
acuteness,  should  be  capable  of  so  lowering,  so  to 
speak,  his  threshold  of  consciousness  as  to  dwell  in  an 
infantile  world  of  little  happenings  and  of  primitive 
emotions.  At  such  times  he  is  another  man  — writing 
crudely,  feeling  crudely,  not  so  much  putting  himself 
in  the  place  of  the  humble  workman  as  actually  be 
coming  such.  The  following  extract  is  typical :  — 

"  Brooklyn,  September  2, 1870.  Dear  Pete.  I  received  your 
welcome  letter  of  Aug.  27th  and  also  31st,  enclosing  Ned  Stew 
art's —  when  you  write  tell  Ned  I  am  here  in  Brooklyn,  loafing 
around  —  and  that  I  send  my  love.  Pete,  there  is  nothing  par 
ticular  to  write  about  this  time  —  pretty  much  the  same  story 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  117 

—  every  day  out  on  the  bay  awhile,  or  going  down  to  Coney 
Island  beach  —  and  every  day  from  two  to  four  or  five  hours  in 
the  printing  office  —  I  still  keep  well  and  hearty,    and  the 
weather  is  fine  —  warm  through  the  middle  of  the  day,-  and 
cool  morning  and  nights  —  I  fall  in  with  a  good  many  of  my 
acquaintances  of  years  ago  —  the  young  fellows,  (now  not  so 
young) — that  I  knew  intimately  here  before  the  war — some 
are  dead  —  and  some  have  got  married  —  and  some  have  grown 
rich  —  one  of  the  latter  I  was  up  with  yesterday  and  last  night 

—  he  has  a  big  house  on  Eif  th  Avenue  I  was  there  to  —  dinner 
(dinner  at  8  P.M.!) — everything  in  the  loudest  sort  of  style, 
with  wines,  silver,  nigger  waiters,  etc.  etc.  etc.     But  my  friend 
is  just  one  of  the  manliest,  jovialest,  best  sort  of  fellows — no 
airs,  and  just  the  one  to  suit  you  and  me,  —  no  women  in  the 
house  —  he  is  single  —  he  wants  me  to  make  my  home  there  — 
I  shall  not  do  that,  but  shall  go  there  very  frequently  —  the 
dinners  and  good  wines  are  attractive  —  then  there  is  a  fine 
library.    Well,  Pete,  I  am  on  the  second  month  of  my  furlough 

—  to  think  it  is  almost  six  weeks  since  we  parted  there  that 
night  —  my  dear  loving  boy,  how  much  I  want  to  see  you  —  it 
seems  a  long  while.     I  have  received  a  good  letter  from  Mr. 
O'Connor,  and  also  one  from  John  Rowland  who  is  in  the  office 
for  me.     Nothing  new  in  office  —  Well,  Pete,  about  half  of  our 
separation  is  over  —  the  next  six  weeks  will  soon  pass  away  — 
indeed  it  may  be  only  four,  as  John  Rowland  told  me  he  might 
wish  to  go  away  —  Good-bye  for  the  present,  my  loving  son, 
and  give  my  respects  to  any  of  the  boys  that  ask  about  me. 
WALT." 

Another  letter  shows  more  plainly  his  deep  affec 
tion.  Doyle  had  been  ill,  and  was  in  so  despondent  a 
condition  that  he  had  hinted  at  suicide  :  — 

'*  Dearest  boy,  I  have  not  a  doubt  but  you  will  get  well  and 
entirely  well  —  and  we  will  one  day  look  back  on  these  draw 
backs  and  sufferings  as  things  long  past.  The  extreme  cases 
of  that  malady,  (as  I  told  you  before)  are  persons  that  have 
very  deeply  diseased  blood  so  they  have  no  foundation  to  build 
on  —  you  are  of  healthy  stock,  with  a  sound  constitution  and 


118  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

good  blood  —  and  I.  know  it  is  impossible  for  it  to  continue 
long.  My  darling,  if  you  are  not  well  when  I  come  back  I  will 
get  a  good  room  or  two  in  some  quiet  place,  and  we  will  live  to 
gether  and  devote  ourselves  together  to  the  job  of  curing  you,  and 
making  you  stronger  and  healthier  than  ever.  I  have  had  this 
in  my  mind  before  but  never  broached  it  to  you.  I  could  go  on 
with  my  work  in  the  Attorney  General's  office  just  the  same  — 
and  we  would  see  that  your  mother  should  have  a  small  sum  every 
week  to  keep  the  pot  a-boiling  at  home.  Dear  comrade,  I 
think  of  you  very  often.  My  love  for  you  is  indestructible,  and 
since  that  night  and  morning  has  returned  more  than  before. 
Dear  Pete,  dear  son,  my  darling  boy,  my  young  and  loving 
brother,  don't  let  the  devil  put  such  thoughts  in  your  mind 
again  —  wickedness  unspeakable  —  death  and  disgrace  here,  and 
hell's  agonies  hereafter  —  Then  what  would  it  be  afterward  to  the 
mother  ?  What  to  me?  —  Pete,  I  send  you  some  money  by 
Adams'  Express  —  you  use  it,  dearest  son,  and  when  it  is  gone 
you  shall  have  some  more,  for  I  have  plenty.  I  will  write 
again  before  long  —  my  love  to  Johnny  Lee,  my  dear  darling 
boy.  I  love  him  truly  —  (let  him  read  these  three  last  lines)  — 
Dear  Pete,  remember  —  WALT.  ' ' 

While  in  one  personality  Whitman  was  a  humble 
son  of  the  people,  without  apparent  motive  beyond 
the  simple  enjoyment  of  life  and  the  fulfilment  of  its 
daily  duties  of  labour,  and  in  another  was  the  Gov 
ernment  clerk  with  a  circle  of  well-dressed  friends, 
contented  in  his  little  routine,  and  without  special 
interest  in  literature,  he  was,  in  a  third  personality, 
separated  widely  from  either  of  the  others,  meditating 
deeply  on  high  problems  and  singing  nobly  of  them. 
In  1871  he  wrote  a  long  poem,  After  All,  not  to 
create  Only,  for  the  opening  of  the  fortieth  exhibi 
tion  of  the  American  Institute,  a  forerunner  of  the 
many  "  expositions  "  of  later  days.  It  treated  antiq 
uity  with  somewhat  rough  humour,  and  implored  the 
muse  to  desert  her  ancient  haunts,  leave  her  worn-out 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  119 

themes,  placard  "  removed  "  and  "  let "  on  Parnassus, 
and  realize  that  there  are  better  spheres  and  a  wider 
domain  for  her  rule.  But  this  jocose  passage  is 
atoned  for  by  that  which  follows,  a  glowing  summary 
of  all  that  was  most  beautiful  in  a  past  now 

"Pass'd  to  its  charnel  vault  —  laid  on  the  shelf  —  coffin'd,  with 

crown  and  armor  on, 
Blazon' d  with  Shakspeare's  purple  page, 
And  dirg'd  by  Tennyson's  sweet  sad  rhyme." 

The  sphere  for  the  muse  is  now  in  the  democracy  of  the 
New  World,  with  its  rich  industrial  life  and  its  hope 
of  healthful  and  happy  citizens. 

In  1871,  too,  appeared  a  new  edition  of  the  Leaves 
of  Grass,  with  many  slight  changes  and  improve 
ments,  and  with  the  addition  of  a  group  of  remarkable 
poems  centring  around  the  Passage  to  India,  which 
were  also  published  separately.  The  new  edition 
turned  to  democracy  for  its  keynote :  "  One's  Self  I 
sing  —  a  simple,  separate  person;  yet  after  the  word 
Democratic,  the  word  En-masse"  The  elder  genius  of 
poetry  declared  to  him  that  the  muse  should  sing  of 
war:  — 

"  Be  it  so,  then  I  answer'd, 

I  too,    haughty   Shade,  also  sing  war  —  and  a  longer  and 
greater  one  than  any." 

But  it  was  the  great  war  of  man  with  himself,  as  he 
rises  to  higher  freedom,  a  war  for  the  "  old  cause ! 
Thou  peerless,  passionate  good  cause  ! " 

In  the  little  group  of  poems  centring  around  the 
Passage  to  India,  we  find  Whitman  at  his  highest  level 
of  composition.  They  are,  in  the  main,  short,  highly 
musical  in  phrasing,  and  begin  always  with  splendidly 


120  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

sonorous  lines ;  the  rhythm  is  strong,  flexible,  and 
well  sustained,  and  there  is  a  marked  tendency  to  the 
use  of  the  refrain.  They  are,  too,  readily  intelligible, 
so  far  as  any  poems  can  be  intelligible  which  express 
their  meaning  by  symbols  alone,  or  rather  use  symbols 
for  the  purpose  of  creating  an  affective  mood  of  great 
range  and  intensity.  They  deal  almost  entirely  with 
the  larger  aspirations  of  the  soul,  and  the  symbolism 
continually  used  is  that  of  the  ship  or  the  bird  quest 
ing  on  strong  pinions. 

The  Passage  to  India  itself  was  suggested  by 
the  opening  of  the  Suez  Canal  and  of  the  railroads 
across  this  continent.  Physically  speaking,  the  bar 
riers  of  the  world  were  thus  demolished,  leaving  hu 
manity  free  for  comradeship :  — 

"  Lo,  soul !  seest  thou  not  God's  purpose  from  the  first  ? 
The  earth  to  be  spann'd,  connected  by  net-work, 
The  people  to  become  brothers  and  sisters, 
The  races,  neighbors,  to  marry  and  be  given  in  marriage, 
The  oceans  to  be  cross'd,  the  distant  brought  near, 
The  lands  to  be  welded  together. 

**  (A  worship  new,  I  sing; 
You  captains,  voyagers,  explorers,  yours  ! 
You  engineers  !  you  architects,  machinists,  yours ! 
You,  not  for  trade  or  transportation  only, 
But  in  God's  name,  and  for  thy  sake,  0  soul.)" 

His  fancy  dwelt  with  delight,  moreover,  on  the  long 
line  of  adventurous  spirits  who  had  striven  to  burst 
these  barriers,  the  ancient  traders,  the  mediaeval 
travellers  and  merchants,  the  valorous  explorers  of 
the  renaissance,  —  a  whole  magnificent  group  of 
pioneers  and  visionaries.  All  these  are  but  symbols 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  121 

of  the  adventures  of  the  soul,  its  continual  flight  into 
the  unseen,  its  passionate  voyaging  towards  God :  — 

**  Reckoning  ahead,  0  soul,  when  thou,  the  time  achieved, 
(The  seas  all  cross'd,  weather' d  the  capes,  the  voyage  done,) 
Surrounded,  copest,  frontest  God,  yieldest,  the  aim  attain'd, 
As,  fill'd  with  friendship,  love  complete,  the  Elder  Brother 

found, 
The  Younger  melts  in  fondness  in  his  arms." 

The  minor  poems  of  the  group  repeat  in  different 
keys  the  same  theme,  dwelling,  as  in  Whispers  of 
Heavenly  Death,  on  the  setting  free  of  the  soul  from  the 
body :  — 

"  I  see,  just  see,  skyward,  great  cloud-masses  ; 
Mournfully,  slowly  they  roll,  silently  swelling  and  mixing ; 
With,  at  times,  a  half-dimm'd,  sadden'd,  far-off  star, 
Appearing  and  disappearing. 

(Some  parturition,  rather — some  solemn,  immortal  birth  : 
On  the  frontiers,  to  eyes  impenetrable, 
Some  Soul  is  passing  over.)" 

Or,  under  the  favourite  symbol  of  the  ship  and  the 
sailor,  they  sing  of  voyagers  saying  farewell  before 
departing  on  the  great  quest,  as  in  Now  Finale  to  the 
Shore,  and  in 

.     "  Joy  !  shipmate  —  joy  1 

(Pleas' d  to  my  Soul  at  death  I  cry;) 
Our  life  is  closed  —  our  life  begins  ; 
The  long,  long  anchorage  we  leave, 
The  ship  is  clear  at  last  —  she  leaps  I 
She  swiftly  courses  from  the  shore  ; 
Joy  !  shipmate  —  joy  1 " 

In  1871,  too,  Whitman  published  his  first  body  of 
prose,  Democratic  Vistas,  a  set  of  linked  medita 
tions  on  the  fortunes  of  democracy  in  America,  on 


122  WALT    WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

which  he  had  been  working  for  several  years.  They 
follow  the  lines  suggested  by  him  in  his  earlier  pref 
aces,  but  they  are  also  somewhat  in  the  nature  of  a 
commentary  on  Carlyle's  Shooting  Niagara,  and  After, 
which  had  appeared  in  1867.  Carlyle's  rough- 
and-ready  condemnation  of  American  democracy  had 
at  first  roused  Whitman's  wrath,  but  reflection  had 
shown  him  certain  similarities  between  their  ideas. 
Caiiyle  found  practical  democracy  a  failure  and  be 
lieved  in  the  sterner  rule,  secured  somehow,  of  the 
aristos,  the  really  best  man.  And  this  aristos  will  be 
sometimes  "  speculative,  speaking  or  vocal,"  the  hero  as 
poet  or  prophet  or  priest,  who  will  deliver  the  truth 
to  mankind.  He  will  not  be  the  mere  man  of  letters, 
with  his  silly  verse  or  fiction,  but  one  who  can  teach 
the  public  what  liberty  really  means  and  lead  it  in 
paths  of  wisdom  and  high  ideals.  Whitman,  though 
not  doubtful  of  the  material  success  of  the  democracy, 
was,  no  less  than  Carlyle,  alive  to  the  slightness  of  its 
progress  on  higher  lines :  — 

"  The  depravity  of  the  business  classes  of  our  country  is  not 
less  than  has  been  supposed,  but  infinitely  greater.  The  official 
services  of  America,  national,  state,  and  municipal,  in  all  their 
branches  and  departments,  except  the  judiciary,  are  saturated 
in  corruption,  bribery,  falsehood,  maladministration ;  and  the 
judiciary  is  tainted.  The  great  cities  reek  with  respectable  as 
much  as  non-respectable  robbery  and  scoundrelism.  In  fashion 
able  life,  flippancy,  tepid  amours,  weak  infidelism,  small  aims, 
or  no  aims  at  all,  only  to  kill  time.  In  business,  (this  all-de 
vouring  modern  word,  business,)  the  one  sole  object  is,  by  any 
means,  pecuniary  gain.  The  magician's  serpent  in  the  fable  ate 
up  all  the  other  serpents  ;  and  money-making  is  our  magician's 
serpent,  remaining  to-day  sole  master  of  the  field.  The  best 
class  we  show  is  but  a  mob  of  fashionably  dress' d  speculators 
and  vulgarians.  True,  indeed,  behind  this  fantastic  farce, 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  123 

enacted  on  the  visible  stage  of  society,  solid  things  and  stupen 
dous  labors  are  to  be  discover'd,  existing  crudely  and  going  on  in 
the  background,  to  advance  and  tell  themselves  in  time.  Yet 
the  truths  are  none  the  less  terrible.  I  say  that  our  New 
World  democracy,  however  great  a  success  in  uplifting  the 
masses  out  of  their  sloughs,  in  materialistic  development, 
products,  and  in  a  certain  highly-deceptive  superficial  popular 
intellectuality,  is,  so  far,  an  almost  complete  failure  in  its  social 
aspects,  and  in  really  grand  religious,  moral,  literary,  and 
esthetic  results.  In  vain  do  we  march  with  unprecedented 
strides  to  empire  so  colossal,  outvying  the  antique,  beyond 
Alexander's,  beyond  the  proudest  sway  of  Rome.  In  vain  have 
we  annex'd  Texas,  California,  Alaska,  and  reach  north  for 
Canada  and  south  for  Cuba.  It  is  as  if  we  were  somehow  being 
endow' d  with  a  vast  and  more  and  more  thoroughly -appointed 
body,  and  then  left  with  little  or  no  soul." 

To  free  the  citizen  from  conscienceless  greed  much 
was  necessary.  He  must  be  led  to  higher  ideals. 
Nothing  would  help  us  more  than  that  the  states,  "  with 
all  their  variety  of  origins,"  should  possess  "  an  aggre 
gate  of  heroes,  characters,  exploits,  sufferings,  pros 
perity  or  misfortune,  glory  or  disgrace,  common  to  all, 
typical  of  all."  Nothing  is  really  of  value  except 
"  the  fervid  and  tremendous  Idea,"  —  the  true  basis 
of  nationality.  To  realize  that  high  common  feeling, 
we  must  insist  on  perfect  individualism,  the  "  simple 
idea  that  the  last,  best  dependence  is  to  be  upon 
humanity  itself,  arid  its  own  inherent,  normal,  full- 
grown  qualities,  without  any  superstitious  support 
whatever."  It  was  the  people  in  whom  he  believed, 
the  common  stock,  and  the  common  stock  does  not 
so  much  need  learning  and  culture  as  it  does  con 
science  and  religion  and  comradeship.  To  gain  such 
basic  qualities  he  has,  in  essence,  only  two  means  to 
suggest.  First,  the  physical  race  must  be  strong  and 


124  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

fine,  and  this  is  a  question  of  good  fatherhood  and 
motherhood.  Second,  the  race  must  be  roused  to  spir 
itual  activity  by  a  new  group  of  poets  and  orators  :  — 

"Then  still  the  thought  returns,  (like  the  thread-passage  in 
overtures,)  giving  the  key  and  echo  to  these  pages.  When  I 
pass  to  and  fro,  different  latitudes,  different  seasons,  beholding 
the  crowds  of  the  great  cities,  New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia, 
Cincinnati,  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  San  Francisco,  New  Orleans, 
Baltimore  —  when  I  mix  with  these  interminable  swarms  of 
alert,  turbulent,  good-natured,  independent  citizens,  mechanics, 
clerks,  young  persons — at  the  idea  of  this  mass  of  men,  so 
fresh  and  free,  so  loving  and  so  proud,  a  singular  awe  falls 
upon  me.  I  feel,  with  dejection  and  amazement,  that  among 
our  geniuses  and  talented  writers  or  speakers,  few  or  none 
have  yet  really  spoken  to  this  people,  created  a  single  image- 
making  work  for  them,  or  absorb'd  the  central  spirit  and  the 
idiosyncrasies  which  are  theirs  —  and  which,  thus,  in  highest 
ranges,  so  far  remain  entirely  uncelebrated,  unexpress'd. 

"Dominion  strong  is  the  body's;  dominion  stronger  is  the 
mind's.  What  has  fill'd,  and  fills  to-day  our  intellect,  our 
fancy,  furnishing  the  standards  therein,  is  yet  foreign.  The 
great  poems,  Shakspere  included,  are  poisonous  to  the  idea  of 
the  pride  and  dignity  of  the  common  people,  the  life-blood  of 
democracy.  The  models  of  our  literature,  as  we  get  it  from 
other  lands,  ultramarine,  have  had  their  birth  in  courts,  and 
bask'd  and  grown  in  castle  sunshine  ;  all  smells,  of  princes' 
favors.  Of  workers  of  a  certain  sort,  we  have,  indeed,  plenty, 
contributing  after  their  kind ;  many  elegant,  many  learn'd,  all 
complacent.  But  touch' d  by  the  national  test,  or  tried  by  the 
standards  of  democratic  personality,  they  wither  to  ashes.  I 
say  I  have  not  seen  a  single  writer,  artist,  lecturer,  or  what  not, 
that  has  confronted  the  voiceless  but  ever  erect  and  active, 
pervading,  underlying  will  and  typic  aspiration  of  the  land, 
in  a  spirit  kindred  to  itself.  Do  you  call  those  genteel  little 
creatures  American  poets  ?  Do  you  term  that  perpetual,  pista- 
reen,  paste-pot  work,  American  art,  American  drama,  taste, 
verse  ?  I  think  I  hear,  echoed  as  from  some  mountain-top  afar 
in  the  west,  the  scornful  laugh  of  the  Genius  of  these  States." 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  125 

Whitman's  ideas  thus  have  much  in  common  with 
Carlyle's.  Both  men  were  profoundly  dissatisfied 
with  existing  conditions ;  both  looked  to  literature 
to  right  the  wrongs  of  the  present ;  both  felt  greatly 
rather  than  reasoned  well ;  both  wrote  with  high  en 
thusiasm,  in  an  involved,  oratorical,  many-coiled  style, 
forever  winding  back  to  a  few  simple  ideas.  The 
difference  lay  mainly  in  the  constitutional,  perhaps 
physical,  contrast  of  temperament  between  the  opti 
mist  and  the  pessimist.  Like  Plato,  Whitman  saw  a 
vision  of  the  perfect  state,  and  yearned  for  its  attain 
ment,  and  he  believed  heartily  that  the  grand  common 
stock,  each  man  and  woman  well  begotten  and  well 
nurtured,  conscious  of  his  own  identity,  inspired  by 
great  poets  to  high  comradeship,  would  one  day  gain 
the  victory  over  itself.  But  that  victory,  as  he  said 
in  his  noble  closing  passage,  would  not  be  without  toil, 
nor  without  the  aid  of  the  poet :  — 

"  Even  to-day,  amid  these  whirls,  incredible  flippancy,  and 
blind  fury  of  parties,  infidelity,  entire  lack  of  first-class  captains 
and  leaders,  added  to  the  plentiful  meanness  and  vulgarity  of 
the  ostensible  masses  —  that  problem,  the  labor  question,  be 
ginning  to  open  like  a  yawning  gulf,  rapidly  widening  every 
year  —  what  prospect  have  we  ?  We  sail  a  dangerous  sea  of 
seething  currents,  cross  and  under-currents,  vortices  —  all  so 
dark,  untried  —  and  whither  shall  we  turn  ?  It  seems  as  if  the 
Almighty  had  spread  before  this  nation  charts  of  imperial  des 
tinies,  dazzling  as  the  sun,  yet  with  many  a  deep  intestine 
difficulty,  and  human  aggregate  of  cankerous  imperfection,  — 
saying,  lo  !  the  roads,  the  only  plans  of  development,  long  and 
varied  with  all  terrible  balks  and  ebullitions.  You  said  in  your 
soul,  I  will  be  empire  of  empires,  overshadowing  all  else,  past 
and  present,  putting  the  history  of  old-world  dynasties,  con 
quests  behind  me,  as  of  no  account  —  making  a  new  history,  a 
histor^  of  democracy,  making  old  history  a  dwarf  —  I  alone 


126  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

inaugurating  largeness,  culminating  time.  If  these,  O  lands  of 
America,  are  indeed  the  prizes,  the  determinations  of  your 
soul,  be  it  so.  But  behold  the  cost,  and  already  specimens  of 
the  cost.  Thought  you  greatness  was  to  ripen  for  you  like  a 
pear  ?  If  you  would  have  greatness,  know  that  you  must  con 
quer  it  through  ages,  centuries  —  must  pay  for  it  with  a  pro 
portionate  price.  For  you  too,  as  for  all  lands,  the  struggle, 
the  traitor,  the  wily  person  in  office,  scrofulous  wealth,  the  sur 
feit  of  prosperity,  the  demonism  of  greed,  the  hell  of  pas 
sion,  the  decay  of  faith,  the  long  postponement,  the  fossil-like 
lethargy,  the  ceaseless  need  of  revolutions,  prophets,  thunder 
storms,  deaths,  births,  new  projections  and  invigorations  of 
ideas  and  men. 

"Yet  I  have  dream'd,  merged  in  that  hidden-tangled  prob 
lem  of  our  fate,  whose  long  unraveling  stretches  mysteriously 
through  time  —  dream'd  out,  portray 'd,  hinted  already — a  little 
or  a  larger  band  —  a  band  of  brave  and  true,  unprecedented 
yet  —  arm'd  and  equipt  at  every  point — the  members  sepa 
rated,  it  may  be,  by  different  dates  and  States,  or  south,  or 
north,  or  east,  or  west  —  Pacific,  Atlantic,  Southern,  Canadian 
—  a  year,  a  century  here,  and  other  centuries  there  —  but  al 
ways  one,  compact  in  soul,  conscience-conserving,  God-incul 
cating,  inspired  achievers,  not  only  in  literature,  the  greatest 
art,  but  achievers  in  all  art — a  new,  undying  order,  dynasty, 
from  age  to  age  transmitted  —  a  band,  a  class,  at  least  as  fit  to 
cope  with  current  years,  our  dangers,  needs,  as  those  who,  for 
their  times,  so  long,  so  well,  in  armor  or  in  cowl,  upheld  and 
made  illustrious,  that  far-back  feudal,  priestly  world.  To 
offset  chivalry,  indeed,  those  vanish' d  countless  knights,  old 
altars,  abbeys,  priests,  ages  and  strings  of  ages,  a  knightlier 
and  more  sacred  cause  to-day  demands,  and  shall  supply,  in  a 
New  World,  to  larger,  grander  work,  more  than  the  counter 
part  and  tally  of  them." 

In  June,  1872,  at  the  invitation  of  the  United  Lit 
erary  Societies,  Whitman  delivered  As  a  Strong  Bird 
on  Pinions  Free  as  the  Commencement  poem  at  Dart 
mouth  College.  The  invitation  is  said  to  have  origi- 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  127 

nated  in  a  boyish  joke,  some  what  lacking  in  courtesy,  on 
the  part  of  the  students,  who,  perhaps  bearing  in  mind 
the  Children  of  Adam,  wished  to  embarrass  their  elders 
by  the  choice  of  a  poet  whose  personality  and  whose  per 
formance  would  be  the  subject  of  mirth.  If  such  were 
the  case,  their  hopes  were  disappointed,  for  Whitman 
bore  himself  with  quiet  dignity,  and  his  poem,  though 
not  well  read,  was  a  noble  and  patriotic  utterance,  fore 
telling  the  joys  of  the  new  democracy.  From  Hanover, 
the  rural  peace  of  which  was  doubly  delightful  to  one 
coming  from  Washington,  he  journeyed  to  Burlington, 
Vermont,  to  visit  his  sister  Hannah  and  thence  back 
to  Brooklyn.  The  Dartmouth  poem,  with  the  Mystic 
Trumpeter  and  several  others,  was  issued  the  same 
year  in  a  little  pamphlet,  together  with  a  preface  along 
the  same  general  lines  as  those  of  Democratic  Vistas. 
He  followed,  too,  his  old  custom  of  spreading  correct 
ideas  about  his  own  work,  by  writing  an  able  review 
of  the  pamphlet.  The  conclusion  shows  the  calm  and 
sensible  way  in  which  he  regarded  himself :  — 

"Time  only  can  show  if  there  is  indeed  anything  in  them. 
This  Walt  Whitman  —  this  queer  one  whom  most  of  us  have 
watched,  with  more  or  less  amusement,  walking  by  —  this  goer 
and  comer,  for  years,  about  New  York  and  Washington  —  good- 
natured  with  everybody,  like  some  farmer,  or  mate  of  some 
coasting  vessel,  familiarly  accosted  by  all,  hardly  any  one  of  us 
stopping  to  Mr.  him  —  this  man  of  many  characters,  among  the 
rest  that  of  volunteer  help  in  the  army  hospitals  and  on  the  field 
during  the  whole  of  the  late  war,  carefully  tending  all  the 
wounded  he  could,  southern  or  northern  —  if  it  should  turn  out 
that  in  this  plain  unsuspected  old  customer,  dressed  in  gray  and 
wearing  no  neck-tie,  America  and  her  republican  institutions  are 
possessing  that  rara  avis  a  real  national  poet,  chanting,  putting 
in  form,  in  her  own  proud  spirit,  in  first  class  style,  for  present 
and  future  time,  her  democratic  shapes  even  as  the  bards  of 


128  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

Judah  put  in  song,  for  all  time  to  come,  the  Hebrew  spirit,  and 
Homer  the  war-life  of  pre-historic  Greece,  and  Shakspere  the 
feudal  shape  of  Europe's  kings  and  lords  ! 

"  Whether  or  not  the  future  will  justify  such  extravagant 
claims  of  his  admirers,  only  that  future  itself  can  show.  But  Walt 
Whitman  is  certainly  taking  position  as  an  original  force  and 
new  power  in  literature.  He  has  excited  an  enthusiasm  among 
the  republicans  and  young  poets  of  Europe  unequalled  by  our 
oldest  and  best  known  names.  The  literary  opposition  to  him 
in  the  United  States  has,  it  is  true,  been  authoritative,  and  con 
tinues  to  be  so.  But  the  man  has  outlived  the  stress  of  misrep 
resentation,  burlesque,  evil  prophecy,  and  all  calumnies  and  im 
putations,  and  may  now  answer,  as  Captain  Paul  Jones  did, 
when,  after  the  onslaught  of  the  Serapis,  he  was  asked  if  he  had 
struck  his  colors  — '  Struck  ?  '  answered  the  Captain  quietly, 
'  not  at  all  —  I  have  only  just  begun  my  part  of  the  fighting.'  " 

We  may  smile,  if  we  choose,  at  the  unconventional  ity 
of  his  undertaking  to  comment  in  this  anonymous  way 
on  his  own  work,  and  at  the  odd  phrases  which  lie 
employs,  but  what  he  said  was  true.  He  had  out 
lived  much  misunderstanding ;  he  was  still  undefeated 
and  confident  of  eventual  victory  ;  he  was,  in  his  way, 
"  a  real  national  poet." 

Though  Whitman  had  been  so  active  in  composition, 
the  condition  of  his  health  was  far  from  satisfactory. 
In  August,  1869,  while  on  his  vacation,  he  had  written 
to  Peter  Doyle  that  he  had  been  ill  for  several  days : 
"  I  don't  know  what  to  call  it  —  it  makes  me  prostrated 
and  deadly  weak,  and  little  use  of  my  limbs."  A  fort 
night  later  he  wrote  that  he  felt  ill  "  most  every  day 
—  some  days  not  so  bad.  Besides  I  have  those  spells 
again,  worse,  last  longer,  sick  enough,  come  sudden, 
dizzy  and  sudden  sweat.  —  It  is  hard  to  tell  exactly 
what  is  the  matter  or  what  to  do.  The  doctor  says  it 
is  all  from  that  hospital  malaria,  hospital  poison  ab- 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  129 

sorbed  in  the  system  years  ago."  As  the  years  passed 
by  these  attacks  tended  to  increase,  and  during  the 
night  of  January  23,  1873,  he  awoke  to  find  that  he 
could  not  move  his  left  arm  and  leg.  Characteristically, 
he  went  off  to  sleep  again  ;  but  in  the  morning  his 
condition  was  the  same,  and  it  was  evident  that  he 
had  suffered  a  slight  attack  of  paralysis. 

His  friends  came  at  once  to  his  assistance.  The 
Ashtons  would  have  had  him  removed  to  their  house, 
but,  as  he  wrote  to  his  mother,  "  They  live  in  grand 
style  and  I  should  be  more  bothered  than  benefited  by 
their  refinements  and  luxuries,  servants,  etc."  He 
added,  "  Mother,  I  want  you  to  know  truly  that  I  do 
not  want  for  anything  —  as  to  all  the  little  extra  fixings 
and  superfluities,  I  never  did  care  for  them  in  health, 
and  they  only  annoy  me  in  sickness  —  I  have  a  good 
bed  —  as  much  grub  as  I  wish  and  whatever  I  wish 
—  and  two  or  three  good  friends  here." 

The  paralysis  was  slight  and  yielded  slowly  to  good 
treatment.  Meanwhile  Doyle,  Eldridge,  and  Bur 
roughs  took  turns  in  caring  for  him,  and  Mrs.  O'Connor 
came  often  to  do  little  acts  of  kindness.  At  no  time 
did  he  lose  control  of  his  intellectual  faculties  ;  he 
soon  began  to  occupy  himself  with  reading  and  com 
position  ;  and  he  sent  to  his  mother,  at  short  intervals, 
affectionate  and  sensible  letters,  not  disguising  the 
truth,  but  showing  that  he  took  his  illness  bravely  and 
hopefully.  In  a  few  weeks  he  was  about  his  room,  and 
early  in  April  he  began  regularly  to  work  at  his  office  for 
a  couple  of  hours  each  day.  Early  in  May,  however, 
Mrs.  Whitman,  who  was  living  with  George  at  Cam  den, 
New  Jersey,  became  seriously  ill,  and  he  hastened 
to  her  bedside,  arriving  in  time  to  be  present  at  her 


130  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

death.  The  bond  between  them  had  been  peculiarly 
strong  and  the  shock  was  great,  and  was  intensified  by 
the  decease,  shortly  before,  of  his  sister-in-law,  Martha, 
Jeff's  wife,  who  had  been  a  great  favourite  of  his. 
Weakened  by  his  illness,  his  journey,  the  hot  weather, 
which  at  that  time  affected  him  unusually,  and  by  his 
grief,  he  succumbed  again  to  a  more  severe  attack  of 
paralysis,  which  brought  an  end  to  his  clerk's  life  at 
Washington.  He  was  fifty-four  and  was  destined  to 
live  nearly  twenty  years  longer.  As  we  shall  see,  he 
later  recovered  his  strength  to  an  astonishing  degree 
and  did  notable  work  in  his  old  age;  but  he  was 
now  to  pass  through  a  period  of  illness  and  poverty 
which  might  well  have  broken  even  his  confident 
spirit.  His  poems  had  expressed  the  glad  aspirations 
of  his  soul  at  the  thought  of  quick  release  from  the 
body,  but  he  was  now  to  be  long  tied  to  a  crippled  self, 
and  all  his  optimism  was  to  be  tested  to  the  full. 

This  is  an  appropriate  place,  however,  to  speak  of 
the  cheering  effect  upon  him,  in  1866  and  the  years 
immediately  following,  of  the  markedly  greater  ap 
preciation  of  his  work  at  home  and  abroad.  In  1867 
the  New  York  Times  had  accepted  a  laudatory  re 
view  of  the  new  edition  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass  by 
O'Connor,  and  The  Galaxy  issued  a  similar  article 
by  Burroughs ;  and  Burroughs  also  published  an  in 
teresting  little  biography,  the  first  of  many,  entitled 
Notes  on  Walt  Whitman  as  Poet  and  Person.  In  June, 
1868,  moreover,  there  appeared  in  Putnam' s  Magazine 
a  short  but  remarkable  work  of  prose  fiction  called 
TJie  Carpenter,  by  O'Connor.  No  mention  is  made  of 
Whitman's  name  or  work,  but  the  chief  character  of 
the  story  is  plainly  drawn  from  him,  and  is  the  first 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  131 

expression  of  the  extraordinary  feeling  of  reverent 
affection  with  which  many  persons  regarded  Whitman 
in  his  middle  and  later  life.  He  had  over  them  an 
inexplicable  influence,  comfort-giving,  strength-bear 
ing,  such  as  might  come  from  divinity  itself.  The 
tale  has  to  do  with  Christmas  Eve  in  a  farm-house  in 
Pennsylvania  at  the  time  of  the  war.  All  prepara 
tions  have  been  made  for  a  festival,  but  discord  and 
sorrow  hang  heavily  over  the  family.  The  father 
knows  himself  to  be  bankrupt;  the  mother  mourns 
her  youngest  son,  who  has  fled  from  home  to  fight  in 
the  Southern  army ;  the  eldest  son,  just  returned  from 
the  Northern  army,  is  tortured  by  jealousy,  and  his 
wife,  finding  him  stern,  is  drawn  more  than  ever  to  a 
younger  and  more  sympathetic  man  ;  and  he  in  his 
turn,  egotistic  and  light-hearted,  stands  hovering  on 
the  edge  of  a  sinful  passion.  A  knock  is  heard  at 
the  door,  and  there  enters  a  traveller  seeking  shelter 
for  the  night.  "  He  was  tall  and  stalwart,  with  un 
covered  head ;  a  brow  not  large,  but  full,  and  seamed 
with  kindly  wrinkles ;  a  complexion  of  rosy  clear 
ness  ;  heavy-lidded,  firm  blue  eyes,  which  had  a  stead 
fast  and  draining  regard ;  a  short,  thick,  gray  beard 
almost  white,  and  thinly-flowing  dark-gray  hair.  His 
countenance  expressed  a  rude  sweetness.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  long,  dark  overcoat,  much  worn,  and  of 
such  uncertain  fashion  that  it  almost  seemed  a  gab 
ardine.  As  he  stood  there  in  the  gracious  darkling 
light,  he  looked  an  image  of  long  and  loving  experi- 
ance  with  men,  of  immovable  composure  and  charity, 
of  serene  wisdom,  of  immortal  rosy  youth  in  reverend 
age.  A  faint  perfume  exhaled  from  his  garments. 
In  the  lapel  of  his  coat  he  wore  a  sprig  of  holly.  His 


132  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

left  hand,  in  which  he  also  held  his  shapeless  hat, 
carried  a  carpenter's  plane.'7 

The  influence  of  the  wayfarer  is  almost  immediate. 
Each  member  of  the  family  feels  strongly  attracted  to 
him,  and  to  each  he  shows  at  once  his  affection  and 
his  comprehension  of  the  other's  difficulties.  He  had 
nursed  both  sons  in  the  hospitals,  and  now  he  recon 
ciles  the  younger  with  his  father  and  the  elder  with 
his  wife;  the  wife's  lover  he  rebukes  and  then  in 
structs  him  how  to  turn  his  genius  for  affection  to 
noble  uses  ;  and  even  the  father's  financial  difficulties 
he  disperses  by  his  calm  and  intelligent  grasp  of  the 
situation.  Then,  leaving  a  happy  household  behind 
him,  he  departs  into  the  night  as  abruptly  as  he  came, 
and  the  crippled  little  grandchild  whose  pain  he  has 
assuaged  declares  him  in  her  childish  fancy  to  be  the 
good  Christ  Himself.  The  conception  was  a  daring 
one,  and  in  other  hands  it  would  have  provoked  either 
laughter  or  indignation;  but  O'Connor's  skill  was 
equal  to  the  occasion,  and  the  narrative  is  so  full  of 
tenderness  that  the  reader  finds  it  neither  irreverent 
towards  God  nor  overbold  in  its  idealization  of  man. 

Copies  of  the  earlier  editions  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass 
had  been  sent  abroad,  but  they  had  apparently  fallen 
for  the  most  part  on  barren  soil.  It  was  otherwise 
with  the  edition  of  1867,  which  was  favourably  re 
viewed  in  Germany  in  the  Allegemeine  Zeitschrift  in 
1868,  by  Freiligrath,  who,  accustomed  through  Wagner 
to  the  idea  of  a  freer  method  of  musical  composition, 
was  inclined  to  a  similar  open-mindedness  in  regard 
to  verse.  In  England  there  were  favourable  notices 
also,  and  the  book  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  younger 
men  of  letters,  Swinburne,  W.  M.  Rossetti,  F.  W. 


iv.J  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  133 

Myers,  Symonds,  Dowden,  and  others,  who,  for  rea 
sons  somewhat  diverse,  were  eclectic  in  their  tastes 
and  disposed  to  welcome  good  poetry,  in  whatever 
garb  it  was  attired.  These  men  were  all  deeply  moved 
by  Whitman.  "My  academical  prejudices,"  wrote 
Symonds  some  years  later,  "the  literary  instincts 
trained  by  two  decades  of  Greek  and  Latin  studies, 
the  refinements  of  culture,  and  the  exclusiveness  of 
aristocratic  breeding,  revolted  against  the  uncouthness, 
roughness,  irregularity,  coarseness  of  the  poet  and  his 
style.  But  in  the  course  of  a  short  time,  Whitman 
delivered  my  soul  of  these  debilities.  ....  Leaves  of 
Grass,  which  I  first  read  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  in 
fluenced  me  more  perhaps  than  any  other  book  has 
done,  except  the  Bible ;  more  than  Plato,  more  than 
Goethe.  ...  I  do  not  think  it  is  a  religion  only  for 
the  rich,  the  powerful,  the  wise,  the  healthy.  For  my 
own  part,  I  may  confess  that  it  shone  upon  me  when 
my  life  was  broken,  when  I  was  weak,  sickly,  poor, 
and  of  no  account ;  and  that  I  have  lived  thencefor 
ward  in  the  light  and  warmth  of  it." 

This  spontaneous  recognition  of  Whitman  as  a  poet 
soon  became  evident  in  literature.  In  1868  appeared 
Swinburne's  essay  on  Blake,  at  the  close  of  which  he 
points  out  "  sides  of  likeness  many  and  grave  "  be 
tween  Blake  and  Whitman :  — 

' '  To  each  the  imperishable  form  of  a  possible  and  universal 
Republic  is  equally  requisite  and  adorable  as  the  temporal  and 
spiritual  queen  of  ages  as  of  men.  They  are  both  full  of  faith 
arid  passion,  competent  to  love  and  to  hate,  capable  of  contempt 
and  of  worship.  The  divine  devotion  and  selfless  love  which 
makes  men  martyrs  and  prophets  are  alike  visible  and  palpable 
in  each.  And  in  externals  and  details  the  work  of  these  two 
constantly  and  inevitably  coheres  and  coincides.  A  sound  as 


134  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

of  sweeping  wind  ;  a  prospect  as  over  dawning  continents  at 
the  fiery  visitant  of  a  sudden  sunrise  ;  a  splendour  now  of  stars 
and  now  of  storms  ;  an  expanse  and  exultation  of  wing  across 
strange  spaces  of  air  and  above  shoreless  stretches  of  sea  .  .  . 
a  strength  and  security  of  touch  in  small  sweet  sketches  of 
colour  and  outline,  which  bring  before  the  eyes  of  their  student 
a  clear  glimpse  of  the  thing  designed  —  some  little  inlet  of  sky 
lighted  by  moon  or  star,  some  dim  reach  of  windy  water  or 
gentle  growth  of  meadow-land  or  wood  ;  these  are  qualities 
common  to  the  work  of  either." 

Later  in  the  same  year  also,  there  appeared  a  volume 
of  selections  from  Whitman's  poems,  edited  by  W.  M. 
Eossetti,  and  intended  exclusively  for  English  readers. 
Eossetti  had  been  for  some  time  in  correspondence 
with  Whitman  and  his  friends  in  regard  to  the  deli 
cate  question  of  expurgation.  The  publisher  was  un 
willing  to  print  the  complete  edition,  which  might 
have  laid  him  open  to  prosecution,  and  Whitman  was 
unwilling  to  permit  in  England  what  he  had  refused 
to  allow  at  home ;  the  matter  was  settled  by  Whit 
man's  giving  leave  to  Eossetti  to  choose  such  poems 
as  he  pleased,  but  to  publish  these  in  full. 

Eossetti's  interest  in  Whitman  was  certainly  genuine, 
and  in  his  preface  to  the  selections  he  declared  the 
Leaves  of  Grass  to  be  "  incomparably  the  largest  per 
formance  of  our  period  in  poetry,"  and  prophesied 
that  Whitman's  "  voice  will  one  day  be  potential  or 
magisterial  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken." 
There  were,  however,  limitations :  he  objected  to  the 
grossness  of  Whitman's  language  and  the  grossness  of 
the  ideas  he  sometimes  expressed,  to  his  absurd  and 
ill-constructed  words ;  to  the  peculiarities  of  his  style, 
in  particular  to  his  method  of  agglomeration ;  and  to 
his  boundless  (though  often  vicarious)  self-assertion. 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP    (1861-1873)  135 

Such  limitations,  shared  by  many  of  Whitman's  early 
admirers  in  England,  showed  that  they  were  far  from 
understanding  thoroughly  the  relation  that  these 
matters  bore  to  his  theory  of  art ;  but,  whatever  limita 
tion  Rossetti  set  on  his  praise  of  Whitman,  his  selec 
tions  served  to  make  the  poet  known  to  a  small  but 
important  set  of  readers  in  Great  Britain,  and  formed 
for  some  years  the  central  point  of  the  movement,  if 
such  it  may  be  called,  in  Whitman's  favour. 

Essays  and  reviews  of  Whitman  now  appeared  more 
frequently,  the  most  remarkable  of  these  being  an 
article  in  the  Westminster  Review  for  July,  1871,  by 
Edward  Dowden,  the  first  critic  to  seize  the  essence 
of  Whitman's  theory  and  to  present  it  intelligently. 
Swinburne  addressed  a  poem  to  Whitman  in  his  Songs 
before  Sunrise  (1871)  ;  Tennyson  wrote  him  twice,  in 
terms  of  fraternal  affection,  as  one  monarch  might  ad 
dress  another  ;  Rudolf  Schmidt,  who  had  written  on 
Whitman  in  a  Danish  literary  journal,  translated 
Democratic  Vistas  into  Danish,  and  sent  him  a  message 
from  Bjornson  ;  and  a  multitude  of  pleasant  relation 
ships  were  thus  little  by  little  established. 

The  greatest  and  most  delightful  tribute  which 
Whitman  received  at  this  period  was  one  of  a  sort 
wholly  unexpected.  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist,  who,  after 
her  husband's  death,  completed  with  much  skill  and 
learning  his  life  of  Blake,  was  a  friend  of  Rossetti's, 
and  becoming  acquainted  with  the  Selections,  felt  im 
pelled  to  read  the  complete  edition  of  the  Leaves  of 
Grass.  In  asking  Rossetti  to  lend  her  the  volume, 
she  wrote  quite  frankly  that,  "  as  for  what  you  spe 
cially  allude  to,  who  so  well  able  to  bear  it  —  I  will 
say,  to  judge  wisely  of  it  —  as  one  who,  having  been  a 


136  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

happy  wife  and  mother,  has  learned  to  accept  with 
tenderness,  to  feel  a  sacredness  in  all  the  facts  of 
nature  ?  "  "  But,"  she  adds,  "  perhaps  Walt  Whitman 
has  forgotten  —  or,  thro  some  theory  in  his  head, 
has  overridden  —  the  truth  that  our  instincts  are 
beautiful  facts  of  nature,  as  well  as  our  bodies,  and 
that  we  have  a  strong  instinct  of  silence  about  some 
things."  A  few  days  later,  having  received  and  read 
the  poems,  she  wrote  Eossetti  thus  courageously  about 
them  :  — 

"11  July.  I  think  it  was  very  manly  and  kind  of  you  to  put 
the  whole  of  Walt  Whitman's  poems  into  my  hands  ;  and  that  I 
have  no  other  friend  who  w'd  have  judged  them  and  me  so 
wisely  and  generously.  ...  In  regard  to  those  poems  which 
raised  so  loud  an  outcry,  I  will  take  courage  to  say  frankly  that 
I  find  them  also  beautiful,  and  that  I  think  even  you  have  mis 
apprehended  them.  Perhaps  indeed  they  were  chiefly  written 
for  wives.  I  rejoice  to  have  read  these  poems  ;  and  if  I  or  any 
true  woman  feel  that,  certainly  men  may  hold  their  peace  about 
them.  You  will  understand  that  I  still  think  that  instinct  of 
silence  I  spoke  of  a  right  and  beautiful  thing  ;  and  that  it  is 
only  lovers  and  poets  (perhaps  only  lovers  and  this  poet)  who 
may  say  what  they  will  —  the  lover  to  his  own,  the  poet  to  all 
because  all  are  in  a  sense  his  own.  Shame  is  like  a  very  flexible 
veil  that  takes  faithfully  the  shape  of  what  it  covers  —  lovely 
when  it  hides  a  lovely  thing,  ugly  when  it  hides  an  ugly  one. 
There  is  not  any  fear  that  the  freedom  of  such  impassioned 
words  will  destroy  the  sweet  shame,  the  happy  silence,  that 
enfold  and  brood  over  the  secrets  of  love  in  a  woman's  heart." 

With  Mrs.  Gilchrist's  consent,  her  letters  were  sent, 
without  mention  of  her  name,  to  Whitman,  and  a 
little  later  they  were  published  in  the  Boston  Radical 
under  the  title  of  A  Woman's  Estimate  of  Walt  Whit 
man.  Their  influence  in  decreasing  the  attacks  on 
Whitman  for  indecency  of  expression  is  scarcely  to 


iv.]  COMRADESHIP   (1861-1873)  137 

be  exaggerated.  When  once  a  woman  of  refinement 
had  declared  that  the  wife  and  mother  understood  his 
meaning  and  was  not  shocked  by  it,  the  ground  was, 
as  it  were,  cut  out  from  under  the  prudish  male  critic. 
At  the  same  time,  the  limitations  which  she  placed 
upon  her  admiration  defended  her  from  any  imputa 
tion  of  recklessness  in  opening  wide  the  realm  of  song 
for  the  indiscriminate  admission  of  poems  that  dealt 
with  love  in  this  fashion. 

In  general,  however,  the  effect  of  foreign  apprecia 
tion  of  Whitman's  work  on  the  home  public  was  not 
considerable.  Indeed,  American  readers  and  critics 
were  both  inclined  to  underrate  the  value  of  such  judg 
ments  from  afar,  classing  them  with  such  ill-informed 
opinion  as  fancied  that  Indians  in  their  war-paint  still 
roamed  in  the  outskirts  of  the  great  Eastern  cities, 
and  that  the  typical  American  of  the  cultivated  class 
was  portrayed  in  Dickens's  American  Notes.  They 
forgot,  nevertheless,  that  to  the  English  reader  verse 
or  prose  that  merely  represented  the  continuation  of 
English  tradition  seemed  naturally  worthy  of  no 
special  remark,  and  that  while  the  majority  of  Amer 
ican  writers,  particularly  perhaps  those  from  New 
England,  were  living  under  conditions  not  easily  to  be 
distinguished  from  English  conditions,  and  writing 
much  as  Englishmen  would,  there  was  throughout  the 
world  a  deep  interest  in  such  American  writing  as  rep 
resented  conditions  more  widely  national.  America, 
Europe  has  steadily  felt,  is  the  great  modern  experi 
ment  in  democracy,  the  pioneer  in  the  mastery  of  a 
huge  continent ;  she  attempts  the  assimilation  of 
many  races ;  her  peoples  are  living  on  a  new  basis, 
they  are  facing  new  problems,  —  their  life  must  have 


138  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP.  iv. 

in  it  something  suggestive  of  all  these.  What 
thoughtful  Europeans  heard  most  gladly  from  us, 
therefore,  was  not  the  speech  of  the  sophisticated,  the 
virtually  Europeanized  literary  class,  but  the  speech 
of  the  people  at  large,  the  song  of  democracy.  And 
though  Whitman  did  not  write  in  a  way  that  could 
often  be  understood  by  the  people,  he  spoke  of  them 
and,  in  a  great  measure,  for  them. 


CHAPTER  V 

OLD  AGE   (1873-1892) 

CAMDEN  in  New  Jersey,  where  Whitman  was  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  the  remaining  years  of  his  life,  lies 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Delaware  from  Philadel 
phia,  of  which  it  may  be  regarded  as  a  suburb.  Colo 
nel  Whitman  was  an  inspector  of  gas  and  water  pipes, 
and  his  family  occupied  a  comfortable  house,  in  which 
Whitman  had  the  room  formerly  used  by  his  mother. 
In  September,  the  Whitmans  moved  to  a  larger  and 
more  pleasantly  situated  house,  where  WThitman  chose 
for  himself  a  chamber  on  the  top  floor.  His  relatives 
were  kind  to  him  and  saw  carefully  to  all  his  needs. 
But  he  was  far  from  happy.  He  was  partly  disabled 
by  paralysis  and  got  about  only  with  difficulty.  His 
brother  had  little  time  to  spend  in  convoying  his  slow 
steps,  and  he  had  as  yet  no  friends  or  even  acquaint 
ances.  In  addition  to  his  paralysis,  he  suffered  from 
gastric  catarrh  or  some  obstinate  affection  of  the  liver, 
brought  on,  he  thought,  by  his  unaccustomed  sedentary 
life  and  confinement  indoors.  His  brain,  too,  was 
often  in  a  "  blur,"  as  he  expressed  it.  His  Washington 
friends  could  only  come  to  see  him  at  rare  intervals,  and 
he  was  lonely  and  depressed,  missing  his  old  wood  fire 
(the  house  was  heated  in  a  more  modern  fashion),  and 
finding  it  hard  work  to  get  through  the  long  evenings. 
We  know  most  of  his  life  during  1873-1875  through 
139 


140  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

his  letters  to  Peter  Doyle,  to  whom  he  wrote  frequently 
in  the  old  colloquial,  fragmentary,  almost  illiterate 
fashion.  He  confesses  to  him  how  much  he  misses  his 
"  friendly  presence  and  magnetism  "  and  warns  him 
that,  though  "  I  still  think  I  shall  get  over  this,  and 
we  will  be  together  again  and  have  some  good  times, 
for  all  that  it  is  best  for  you  to  be  prepared  for  some 
thing  different  —  my  strength  can't  stand  the  pull 
forever,  and  if  continued  must  sooner  or  later  give 
out."  As  a  rule,  however,  he  is  hopeful  and  declares 
that  he  puts  a  bold  face  on  and  his  best  foot  foremost. 
His  main  longing  was  for  companionship ;  close  by 
were  men  of  the  sort  that  he  liked  —  "  lots  of  R.  E. 
[railroad]  men  living  near,  around  here  —  if  only  I 
felt  just  a  little  better  I  should  get  acquainted  with 
many  of  the  men,  which  I  could  very  easily  do  if  I 
would.  I  should  much  like  to  go  on  the  trips  so 
handy  and  cheap,  right  as  you  might  [say]  from  my 
door,  to  Cape  May,  or  to  Long  Branch,  etc.  If  you  was 
only  here  to  convoy  me  —  but  I  suppose  no  one  is  to 
have  everything"  And  so  he  plans  for  the  welfare  of  his 
"  dear  son,"  dreams  of  returning  to  Washington  soon, 
and  sends  messages  of  affection  to  one  and  another  of 
his  humble  friends. 

For  a  year  Whitman  was  allowed  to  perform  his 
Washington  duties  by  proxy,  but  when,  in  the  mid 
summer  of  1874,  it  became  evident  that  his  return 
would  be  postponed  indefinitely,  he  received  his  dis 
charge.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  been  meeting  his 
expenses  from  his  savings  and  the  residue  of  his 
salary.  Now  that  the  latter  was  cut  off  and  his  sav 
ings  were  vanishing,  his  financial  situation  began  to 
look  black,  for  the  sale  of  his  books  was  small,  and 


v.]  OLD   AGE    (1873-1892)  141 

even  the  slight  sums  that  should  have  reached  him 
from  them  were  withheld  by  dishonest  agents,  who 
seemed  to  think  that  his  death  would  soon  relieve 
them  from  an  accounting.  His  physical  condition 
slowly  improved.  He  got  out  of  doors  more,  and  once 
able  to  reach  the  horse-car  lines,  he  had  long  rides, 
crossed  the  ferry  to  Philadelphia,  and  took  the  cars 
on  the  other  side.  The  drivers  gave  him  their  little 
stools  on  the  forward  platforms,  and  the  ferrymen 
welcomed  him  cordially.  Late  in  1875  he  even  made 
a  brief  visit  to  Washington,  "convoyed"  by  Burroughs, 
and,  with  Doyle,  to  Baltimore,  where  he  attended  the 
ceremonies  at  the  reburial  of  Poe's  body.  But  these 
years  were,  all  in  all,  the  most  lonely  and  miserable 
period  of  his  life. 

Of  literary  composition,  during  this  time,  he  was 
almost  absolutely  incapable ;  yet  we  owe  to  it  at 
least  three  poems  :  The  Song  of  the  Universal,  read 
by  proxy  at  Tufts  College  at  Commencement,  in 
1874,  on  the  thought  that  "  only  the  good  is  uni 
versal,"  and  that  in  America,  in  particular,  the  plan 
of  God  is  slowly  bringing  men  to  a  larger  hope  and 
reality;  The  Song  of  the  Redwood  Tree,  the  dying 
message  of  the  dryads  of  the  mighty  forests  of  the 
Pacific  coast,  majestic  giants  passing  away  because 
their  time  had  come,  abdicating,  as  it  were,  to  a 
superber  race,  in  the  new  and  promised  land  of  free 
dom  and  true  democracy ;  and,  best  of  all,  the  mag 
nificent  Prayer  of  Columbus,  published  in  Harper's 
Monthly.  In  this  he  symbolizes  his  own  condition. 
Columbus,  "  a  batter'd,  wreck'd  old  man,"  long  pent 
by  the  sea,  on  a  savage  shore,  reports  himself  once 
more  to  God  :  — 


142  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

"Thou  knowest  my  years  entire,  my  life, 
My  long  and  crowded  life  of  active  work,  not  adoration  merely; 
Thou  knowest  the  prayers  and  vigils  of  rny  youth, 
Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and  visionary  meditations, 
Thou  knowest  how  before  I  commenced  I  devoted  all  to  come 

to  Thee, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  in  age  ratified  all  those  vows  and  strictly 

kept  them, 

Thou  knowest  I  have  not  once  lost  nor  faith  nor  ecstasy  in  Thee, 
In  shackles,  prison'd,  in  disgrace,  repining  not, 
Accepting  all  from  Thee,  as  duly  come  from  Thee.  .  .  . 

"The  end  I  know  not,  it  is  all  in  Thee, 
Or  small  or  great  I  know  not  —  haply  what  broad  fields, 

what  lands, 

Haply  the  brutish  measureless  human  undergrowth  I  know, 
Transplanted  there  may  rise  to  stature,  knowledge  worthy 

Thee, 
Haply  the  swords  I  know  may  there  indeed  be  turn'd  to 

reaping-tools, 
Haply  the  lifeless  cross  I  know,  Europe's  dead  cross,  may 

bud  and  blossom  there. 

"  One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand  ; 
That  Thou,  O  God,  my  life  hast  lighted, 
With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouchsafed  of  Thee, 
Light  rare  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 
Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages  ; 
For  that,  O  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here  on  my  knees, 
Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee." 

In  1876,  however,  the  tide  of  fortune  began  to  turn. 
In  his  few  working  hours  he  had  been  able  to  prepare 
for  the  press  a  new  edition  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass,  the 
sixth,  and  a  companion  volume,  Two  Rivulets,  —  that 
is,  twin  streams  of  prose  and  verse,  respectively,  — 
containing  Democratic  Vistas,  the  new  prose  Memoranda 
of  the  War,  and  such  poems  as  had  been  written  since 
the  previous  edition  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass.  The  two 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  143 

volumes  sold  at  five  dollars  each.  Before  they  were 
actually  published,  a  letter  from  Robert  Buchanan 
appeared  in  the  London  News,  accusing  Americans  of 
neglecting  Whitman,  who  was  old  and  ill  and  in  want. 
The  charge  was,  from  some  points  of  view,  unjust, 
but  it  moved  W.  M.  Kossetti  to  write  to  Whitman, 
offering  the  assistance  of  his  English  friends.  Whit 
man  replied  (March  17,  1876)  that  he  was  no  worse, 
and  might  remain  for  years  in  the  same  condition. 
He  added :  — 

"My  books  are  out,  the  new  edition;  a  set  of  which,  im 
mediately  on  receiving  your  letter  of  28th,  I  have  sent  you,  (by 
mail,  March  15,)  and  I  suppose  you  have  before  this  receiv'd 
them.  My  dear  friend,  your  offers  of  help,  and  those  of  my 
other  British  friends,  I  think  I  fully  appreciate,  in  the  right 
spirit,  welcome  and  acceptive  —  leaving  the  matter  altogether 
in  your  and  their  hands,  and  to  your  and  their  convenience, 
discretion,  leisure,  and  nicety.  Though  poor  now,  even  to  penury, 
I  have  not  so  far  been  deprived  of  any  physical  thing  I  need 
or  wish  whatever,  and  I  feel  confident  I  shall  not  in  the  future. 
During  my  employment  of  seven  years  or  more  in  Washington 
after  the  war  (1865-72)  I  regularly  saved  part  of  my  wages : 
and,  though  the  sum  has  now  become  about  exhausted  by  my 
expenses  of  the  last  three  years,  there  are  already  beginning  at 
present  welcome  dribbles  hitherward  from  the  sales  of  my  new 
edition,  which  I  just  job  and  sell,  myself,  (all  through  this  ill 
ness,  my  book-agents  for  three  years  in  New  York  successively, 
badly  cheated  me,)  and  shall  continue  to  dispose  of  the  books 
myself.  And  that  is  the  way  I  should  prefer  to  glean  my  sup 
port.  In  that  way  I  cheerfully  accept  all  the  aid  my  friends  find 
it  convenient  to  proffer. 

"To  repeat  a  little,  and  without  undertaking  details,  under 
stand,  dear  friend,  for  yourself  and  all,  that  I  heartily  and  most 
affectionately  thank  my  British  friends,  and  that  I  accept  their 
sympathetic  generosity  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  I  believe 
(nay,  know)  it  is  offer'd  —  that  though  poor  I  am  not  in  want 


144  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

—  that  I  maintain  good  heart  and  cheer  ;  and  that  by  far  the 
most  satisfaction  to  me  (and  I  think  it  can  be  done,  and  believe 
it  will  be)  will  be  to  live,  as  long  as  possible,  on  the  sales,  by 
myself,  of  my  own  works,  and  perhaps,  if  practicable,  by  further 
writings  for  the  press.  W.  W. 

"I  am  prohibited  from  writing  too  much,  and  I  must  make 
this  candid  statement  of  the  situation  serve  for  all  my  dear 
friends  over  there." 

Rossetti  took  steps  to  circulate  this  information 
among  Whitman's  friends  in  Great  Britain,  and  the 
result  was  a  handsome  subscription  for  the  two  vol 
umes,  some  of  the  subscribers  voluntarily  paying  for 
the  books  double  the  stated  price.  To  Whitman  these 
remittances  came  just  in  time  to  free  him  from  serious 
financial  inconvenience.  "  These  blessed  gales  from 
the  British  isles  probably  (certainly)  saved  me,"  he 
said ;  and  he  had  the  happiness  not  only  of  knowing 
that  he  was  loved  and  helped  by  his  friends,  but  that 
the  receipts  were  derived  from  his  own  labours. 

Feeling  by  this  time  somewhat  better  in  body,  and 
surer  now  of  financial  independence,  he  was  able  to 
lead  a  less  secluded  and  monotonous  life.  In  the 
spring  of  1876  he  accordingly  left  Camden  for  the 
village  of  Whitehorse,  some  ten  miles  away,  where  he 
lodged  in  an  old  farm-house,  with  the  family  of  Mr. 
George  Stafford.  The  country  is  gently  rolling,  well 
timbered,  and  full  of  rich  meadowland.  The  farm 
lay  far  from  the  main  roads,  and  near  by  was  Timber 
Creek,  a  placid  branch  of  the  Delaware.  The  farm 
house  was  comfortable,  his  hosts  became  his  warm 
friends,  country  life  agreed  with  him,  and  he  remained 
until  late  in  the  autumn,  returned  for  the  following 
summer,  and  in  fact  made  the  Staffords'  house  one  of 
his  homes  for  several  years. 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  145 

He  lived  much,  in  the  open  air,  his  chief  resort  be 
ing  "a  particularly  secluded  little  dell  off  one  side 
by  the  creek,  originally  a  large  dug-out  marl-pit,  now 
abandon'd,  fill'd  with  bushes,  trees,  grass,  a  group  of 
willows,  a  straggling  bank,  and  a  spring  of  delicious 
water."  Here  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  medicine  of 
air  and  water  and  exercise.  For  several  hours  each 
day  he  enjoyed  the  mud-bath  of  the  creek  and  the 
clear  bath  of  the  brook,  and  the  friction  of  a  flesh- 
brush.  He  basked  in  the  sun,  and  wrestled  with  a 
young  hickory  sapling,  swaying  and  yielding  to  its 
tough,  limber  stem,  "  haply  to  get  into  my  old  sinews 
some  of  its  elastic  fibre  and  clear  sap.  .  .  .  Wander 
ing  by  the  creek,  I  have  three  or  four  naturally  favor 
able  spots  where  I  rest  —  besides  a  chair  I  lug  with  me 
and  use  for  more  deliberate  occasions.  At  other  spots 
convenient  I  have  selected,  besides  the  hickory  just 
named,  strong  and  limber  boughs  of  beech  or  holly,  in 
easy-reaching  distance,  for  my  natural  gymnasia,  for 
arms,  chest,  trunk-muscles.  I  can  soon  feel  the  sap 
and  sinew  rising  through  me,  like  mercury  to  heat.  I 
hold  on  boughs  or  slender  trees  caressingly  there  in 
the  sun  and  shade,  wrestle  with  their  innocent  stal- 
wartness  —  and  know  the  virtue  thereof  passes  from 
them  into  me.  .  .  .  How  it  is  I  know  not,  but  I  often 
realize  a  presence  here  —  in  clear  moods  I  am  certain 
of  it,  and  neither  chemistry  nor  reasoning  nor  esthet 
ics  will  give  the  least  explanation.  All  the  past  two 
summers  it  has  been  strengthening  and  nourishing  my 
sick  body  and  soul,  as  never  before.  Thanks,  invis 
ible  physician,  for  thy  silent  delicious  medicine,  thy 
day  and  night,  thy  waters  and  thy  airs,  the  banks,  the 
grass,  the  trees,  and  e'en  the  weeds  ! " 

L 


146  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

In  the  years  immediately  following  this  happy 
change  of  fortune  we  see  Whitman  at  his  very  best. 
No  longer  in  financial  anxiety,  comparatively  free  from 
bodily  pain,  with  faculties  not  yet  dimmed  by  old  age, 
with  powers  of  enjoyment  undiminished,  he  seemed 
at  the  very  height  of  his  powers.  The  reminiscences 
of  Dr.  Bucke  and  Edward  Carpenter,  who  came  to 
know  him  at  this  period,  are  of  great  interest  as  show 
ing  the  growth  in  him  of  a  peculiar  physical  or 
psychic  power,  felt  keenly  by  certain  persons,  less 
perceptibly  by  others,  and  by  some  not  at  all. 

Dr.  Bucke  records  of  their  first  meeting  that  he  was 
"almost  amazed  by  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  his 
person  and  the  gracious  air  of  purity  that  surrounded 
and  permeated  him."  The  interview  was  short,  but 
shortly  after  it  "  a  sort  of  spiritual  intoxication  set 
in.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  at  that  time  certain  that  he 
was  either  actually  a  god  or  in  some  sense  clearly  and 
entirely  praeter-human.  Be  all  this  as  it  may,  it  is 
certain  that  the  hour  spent  that  day  with  the  poet  was 
the  turning  point  of  my  life."  Elsewhere  he  describes 
a  similar  experience  of  another  person,  —  an  exaltation 
that  "lasted  at  least  six  weeks  in  a  clearly  marked 
degree,  so  that,  for  at  least  that  length  of  time,  he 
was  plainly  different  from  his  ordinary  self.  Neither, 
he  said,  did  it  then  or  since  pass  away,  though  it 
ceased  to  be  felt  as  something  new  and  strange,  but 
became  a  permanent  element  in  his  life,  a  strong  and 
living  force  (as  he  described  it),  making  for  purity 
and  happiness.  I  may  add  that  this  person's  whole 
life  has  been  changed  by  that  contact  (no  doubt  the 
previous  reading  of  Leaves  of  Grass  also),  his  temper, 
character,  entire  spiritual  being,  outer  life,  conversa- 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  147 

tion,  etc.,  elevated  and  purified  in  an  extraordinary 
degree."  Indeed,  "  no  description,"  Dr.  Bucke  af 
firms,  "  can  give  any  idea  of  the  extraordinary  physi 
cal  attractiveness  of  the  man.  I  do  not  speak  now  of 
the  affection  of  friends  and  of  those  who  are  much 
with  him,  but  of  the  magnetism  exercised  by  him 
upon  people  who  merely  see  him  for  a  few  minutes  or 
pass  him  on  the  street.  An  intimate  friend  of  the 
author's,  after  knowing  Walt  Whitman  a  few  days, 
said  in  a  letter :  '  As  for  myself,  it  seems  to  me  now 
that  I  have  always  known  him  and  loved  him.7  And 
in  another  letter,  written  from,  a  town  where  the  poet 
had  been  staying  for  a  few  days,  the  same  person 
says:  'Do  you  know,  every  one  who  met  him  here 
seems  to  love  him? ' ' 

Edward  Carpenter's  testimony  lies  in  the  same 
direction :  — 

"  Meanwhile  in  that  first  ten  minutes  I  was  becoming  con 
scious  of  an  impression  which  subsequently  grew  even  more 
marked — the  impression,  namely,  of  immense  vista  or  back 
ground  in  his  personality.  If  I  had  thought  before  (and  I  do 
not  know  that  I  had)  that  Whitman  was  eccentric,  unbalanced, 
violent,  my  first  interview  certainly  produced  quite  a  contrary 
effect.  No  one  could  be  more  considerate,  I  may  almost  say 
courteous ;  no  one  could  have  more  simplicity  of  manner  and 
freedom  from  egotistic  wrigglings  ;  and  I  never  met  any  one  who 
gave  me  more  the  impression  of  knowing  what  he  was  doing 
than  he  did.  Yet  away  and  beyond  all  this  I  was  aware  of  a 
certain  radiant  power  in  him,  a  large  benign  effluence  and 
inclusiveness,  as  of  the  sun,  which  filled  out  the  place  where 
he  was  —  yet  with  something  of  reserve  and  sadness  in  it  too, 
and  a  sense  of  remoteness  and  inaccessibility." 

In  person  Whitman  was  impressive.  He  was  six 
feet  in  height,  weighed  tiearly  two  hundred  pounds, 


148  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

still  held  himself  straight,  and  was  well  proportioned. 
His  long,  very  fine,  and  nearly  snow-white  hair  and 
beard  made  him  appear  at  first  sight  older  than  he  was, 
and  at  sixty  he  was  taken  to  be  seventy  or  eighty. 
He  walked  feebly,  owing  to  his  paralysis,  but  his  face 
had  none  of  the  lines  of  age  or  weariness.  His  com 
plexion  was  singularly  ruddy  —  a  bright  maroon  tint, 
strikingly  in  contrast  with  the  whiteness  of  his  hair 
and  beard ;  and  his  flesh  had  a  delicate  rose  colour. 
Edward  Carpenter  records  that  he  was  "most  struck, 
in  his  face,  by  the  high  arch  of  the  eyebrows,  giving  a 
touch  of  child-like  wonder  and  contemplation  to  his 
expression ;  yet  his  eyes,  though  full  of  a  kind  of  wist 
ful  tenderness,  were  essentially  not  contemplative  but 
perceptive  —  active  rather  than  receptive  —  lying  far 
back,  steady,  clear,  with  small  definite  pupils  and 
heavy  lids  of  passion  and  experience.  A  face  of  ma 
jestic  simple  proportion,  like  a  Greek  temple  as  some 
one  has  said ;  the  nose  Greek  in  outline,  straight  (but 
not  at  all  thin  or  narrow,  rather  the  contrary),  broad 
between  the  brows,  and  meeting  the  line  of  the 
forehead  without  any  great  change  of  direction ;  the 
forehead  high,  with  horizontal  furrows,  but  not  exces 
sively  high;  the  head  domed,  and  rising  to  a  great 
height  in  the  middle,  above  the  ears  —  not  projecting 
behind ;  ears  large  and  finely  formed ;  mouth  full,  but 
almost  quite  concealed  by  hair.  A  head  altogether 
impressing  one  by  its  height,  and  by  a  certain  un 
tamed  'wild  hawk7  look,  not  uncommon  among  the 
Americans.'7 

His  dress  was  plain  and  comfortable.  He  preferred 
clothes  of  light  gray,  loosely  cut,  and  an  overcoat  with 
pockets  in  the  breast  cut  diagonally,  into  which  he 


v.]  OLD   AGE    (1873-1892)  149 

could  thrust  his  hands.  He  wore  a  large,  soft  gray 
felt  hat,  usually  pushed  back  on  his  forehead.  His 
shirts  were  made  to  suit  his  own  fancy,  with  loose, 
turned-down  collars,  the  neck  button  several  inches 
lower  than  usual,  and  he  wore  no  tie,  so  that  they  lay 
open  about  his  throat  and  the  upper  part  of  his  breast. 
The  cuffs  sometimes  turned  up  over  the  coat-sleeves, 
and  the  whole  impression  was  one  of  white  and  gray 
and  pink. 

His  manners  were  informal  and  unaffected.  Intro 
ductions  meant  little.  Once  he  held  out  his  hand 
(either  the  left  or  the  right,  as  chance  directed),  and 
grasped  that  of  another,  the  ceremony  was  over,  and 
a  friendship  was  begun.  His  dominant  mood,  though 
probably  with  some  exaggeration,  was  admirably  an 
alyzed  by  Dr.  Bucke,  who  added  the  perceptions  of  a 
skilled  physician  to  the  affectionate  interest  of  a  friend, 
in  a  passage  that  must  be  quoted  almost  in  full :  — 

"  His  favorite  occupation  seemed  to  be  strolling  or  saunter 
ing  about  outdoors  by  himself,  looking  at  the  grass,  the  trees, 
the  flowers,  the  vistas  of  light,  the  varying  aspects  of  the  sky, 
and  listening  to  the  birds,  the  crickets,  the  tree  frogs,  and  all  the 
hundreds  of  natural  sounds.  It  was  evident  that  these  things 
gave  him  a  pleasure  far  beyond  what  they  give  to  ordinary  peo 
ple.  .  .  .  Until  I  knew  the  man,  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  any 
one  could  derive  so  much  absolute  happiness  from  these  things 
as  he  did.  He  was  very  fond  of  flowers,  either  wild  or  culti 
vated  ;  liked  all  sorts.  I  think  he  admired  lilacs  and  sunflowers 
just  as  much  as  roses.  Perhaps,  indeed,  no  man  who  ever  lived 
liked  so  many  things  and  disliked  so  few  as  Walt  Whitman. 
All  natural  objects  seemed  to  have  a  charm  for  him.  All  sights 
and  sounds  seemed  to  please  him.  He  appeared  to  like  (and 
I  believe  he  did  like)  all  the  men,  women,  and  children  he  saw 
(though  I  never  knew  him  to  say  that  he  liked  anyone),  but 
each  who  knew  him  felt  that  he  liked  him  or  her,  and  that  he 


150  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

liked  others  also.  I  never  knew  him  to  argue  or  dispute,  and  he 
never  spoke  about  money.  He  always  justified,  sometimes 
playfully,  sometimes  quite  seriously,  those  who  spoke  harshly 
of  himself  or  his  writings,  and  I  often  thought  he  took  pleasure  in 
the  opposition  of  enemies.  When  I  first  knew  him,  I  used  to 
think  that  he  watched  himself,  and  would  not  allow  his  tongue 
to  give  expression  to  fretfulness,  antipathy,  complaint,  and 
remonstrance.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  as  possible  that  these 
mental  states  could  be  absent  in  him.  After  long  observation, 
however,  I  satisfied  myself  that  such  absence  or  unconscious 
ness  was  entirely  real.  He  never  spoke  deprecatingly  of  any 
nationality  or  class  of  men,  or  time  in  the  world's  history,  or 
against  any  trades  or  occupations  —  not  even  against  any  ani 
mals,  insects,  or  inanimate  things,  nor  any  of  the  laws  of 
nature,  nor  any  of  the  results  of  those  laws,  such  as  illness, 
deformity,  and  death.  He  never  complained  or  grumbled 
either  at  the  weather,  pain,  illness,  or  anything  else.  He  never 
swore.  He  could  not  very  well,  since  he  never  spoke  in  anger 
and  apparently  never  was  angry.  He  never  exhibited  fear,  and 
I  do  not  believe  he  ever  felt  it." 

This  Saint  Martin's  summer  of  his  later  life  Whit 
man  expressed  rather  in  prose  than  in  verse.  Once 
he  felt  the  flush  of  renewed  vigour,  he  began  again  his 
note-taking  and  memorandum-making.  Some  of  these 
notes  and  memoranda,  collected  in  Specimen  Days, 
show  how  keen  was  his  enjoyment  of  Nature,  now  that 
he  was  at  last  freed  from  the  tyranny  of  bed  and 
chair  and  four  walls.  They  had  less  than  ever  before 
to  do  with  men  and  women.  His  thoughts  were  of 
birds  and  bumblebees,  of  flowers  and  trees,  of  the 
scent  of  the  woods  and  fields,  of  brooks,  and  country 
lanes,  of  starlight,  of  the  ice  on  the  Delaware  of  a 
winter's  night,  of  his  old  mistress,  the  sea,  the  image 
and  sound  of  whose  pounding  waves  had  from  boy 
hood  haunted  his  memory.  They  run  the  whole 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  151 

gamut  of  the  seasons  from  sap  to  frost  and  back  to 
sap  again.  They  are  full  of  sights  and  sounds  and 
odours,  the  accurate  record  of  his  sensations.  There  is 
little  of  mood,  of  subjective  shaping  of  Nature  to  his 
own  purposes.  Rather  is  his  attitude  that  of  cheerful 
receptivity ;  one  of  drawing  nearer,  as  it  were,  and 
listening  and  waiting,  of  expectancy  for  he  knew  not 
what,  until  Nature  seemed  to  be  actually  permeating 
him  with  unknown  influences.  "I  had,"  he  records 
in  a  parenthesis,  "  a  sort  of  dream-trance  the  other 
day,  in  which  I  saw  my  favorite  trees  step  out  and 
promenade  up,  down  and  around,  very  curiously  — 
with  a  whisper  from  one,  leaning  down  as  he  pass'd 
me,  We  do  all  this  on  the  present  occasion,  exceptionally , 
just  for  you" 

Between  the  country  and  the  city  he  now  passed 
with  more  freedom,  staying  as  he  chose  at  Whitehorse 
with  the  Staffords,  with  his  brother  at  Camden,  or  in 
Philadelphia  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Gilchrist.  In  the 
autumn  of  1876  he  made  frequent  visits  to  the  exposi 
tion  in  Philadelphia.  In  January,  1877,  he  spoke  in 
Philadelphia  on  the  one  hundred  and  fortieih  anniver 
sary  of  Thomas  Paine' s  birthday.  In  February  he 
came  to  New  York,  where  a  reception  given  in  his 
honour  showed  him  how  greatly  respect  and  affection 
for  him  had  grown  among  persons  of  repute.  He 
visited,  too,  with  delight  the  scenes  dear  to  him  in 
New  York,  and  then  went  up  the  Hudson  to  tarry  for 
a  while  with  Mr.  Burroughs  amid  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  Ulster  County.  In  1878  he  repeated  the 
excursion,  and  in  the  autumn  of  1879  he  was  ready 
for  a  longer  adventure.  In  September  he  journeyed 
with  friends  as  far  west  as  Colorado,  revelling  in 


152  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

enjoyment  of  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  the  scenery, 
the  fertility  of  the  soil,  the  exuberant  vitality  of  the 
cities,  and  in  the  pressing  realization  that  these  are 
new  lands  in  which  humanity,  untrammelled  by  much 
that  oppressed  it  in  older  soils,  may,  if  it  will,  reach  a 
larger  and  finer  growth.  And  such  a  new  people  should 
have  its  new  literature,  he  dreamed,  one  free  from  all  the 
accumulated  stock  phrases  and  types  and  situations :  — 
"  Will  the  day  ever  come  —  no  matter  how  long  deferr'd  — 
when  those  models  and  lay-figures  from  the  British  islands  — 
and  even  the  precious  traditions  of  the  classics — will  be  remi 
niscences,  studies  only  ?  The  pure  breath,  primitiveness,  bound 
less  prodigality  and  amplitude,  strange  mixture  of  delicacy  and 
power,  of  continence,  of  real  and  ideal,  and  of  all  original  and 
first-class  elements,  of  these  prairies,  the  Eocky  mountains, 
and  of  the  Mississippi  and  Missouri  rivers  —  will  they  ever 
appear  in,  and  in  some  sort  form  a  standard  for  our  poetry 
and  art?" 

He  was,  however,  it  may  be  added,  disappointed  in 
one  respect.  By  his  theory,  and  Plato's,  a  state's  ro 
bustness  depended  upon  the  women  who  would  bear 
and  nurture  the  young,  giving  them  strong  bodies  and 
healthy  minds.  But  he  was  moved  to  record  his  as 
tonishment  that,  while  Western  women  were  fashion 
ably  dressed  and  bore  themselves  well,  they  did  not 
seem  to  "  have,  either  in  physique  or  the  mentality 
appropriate  to  them,  any  high  native  originality  of 
spirit  or  body  (as  the  men  certainly  have,  appropri 
ate  to  them).  They  are  '  intellectual '  and  fashion 
able,  but  dyspeptic-looking  and  generally  doll-like ; 
their  ambition  evidently  is  to  copy  their  eastern 
sisters.  Something  far  different  and  in  advance  must 
appear,  to  tally  and  complete  the  superb  masculinity 
of  the  West,  and  maintain  and  continue  it." 


v.]  OLD   AGE   (1873-1892)  153 

In  general,  he  felt  himself  at  home  in  the  West, 
particularly  at  Denver,  and  wholly  in  sympathy  with 
the  active  and  optimistic  tone  of  Western  life,  a  radi 
cally  American  tone.  Indeed,  even  in  the  magnifi 
cent  and  turbulent  scenery  of  the  high-coloured,  ir 
regular  canons  he  saw  a  landscape  akin  to  his  own 
verse :  — 

'"I  have  found  the  law  of  my  own  poems,'  was  the  unspoken 
but  more-and-more  decided  feeling  that  came  to  me  as  I  pass'd, 
hour  after  hour,  amid  all  this  grim  yet  joyous  elemental  aban 
don  —  this  plenitude  of  material,  entire  absence  of  art,  untram- 
mel'd  play  of  primitive  Nature  —  the  chasm,  the  gorge,  the 
crystal  mountain  stream,  repeated  scores,  hundreds  of  miles  — 
the  broad  handling  and  absolute  uncrampedness  —  the  fantastic 
forms,  bathed  in  transparent  browns,  faint  reds  and  grays, 
towering  sometimes  a  thousand,  sometimes  two  or  three  thou 
sand  feet  high  —  at  their  tops  now  and  then  huge  masses  pois'd, 
and  mixing  with  the  clouds,  with  only  their  outlines,  hazed  in 
misty  lilac,  visible." 

And  the  same  thought  he  expressed,  in  1881,  in 
Spirit  that  formed  this  Scene :  — 

"  Spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 
These  tumbled  rock-piles  grim  and  red, 
These  reckless  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 
These  gorges,  turbulent-clear  streams,  this  naked  freshness, 
These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own, 
I  know  thee,  savage  spirit  —  we  have  communed  together, 
Mine  too  such  wild  arrays  for  reasons  of  their  own; 
Was't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had  forgotten  art  ? 
To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise  and  delicatesse  ? 
The  lyrist's  measur'd  beat,  the  wrought-out  temple's  grace  — 

column  and  polish'd  arch  forgot  ? 

But  thou  that  revelest  here  —  spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 
They  have  remember' d  thee." 


154  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

On  his  return,  Whitman  spent  several  months  with 
his  brother  Jefferson  in  St.  Louis,  enjoying  its  peculiar 
fusion  of  Northern  and  Southern  and  native  and  for 
eign  qualities,  its  bustling  and  varied  life,  and  the 
night  views  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  great  bridge. 
In  January,  1880,  he  returned  to  the  East,  and  in  May, 
with  irrepressible  ardour,  he  was  off  on  another  long 
jaunt,  this  time  by  way  of  Niagara  to  London,  Ontario, 
where  he  was  the  guest  of  Dr.  Bucke,  and,  in  com 
pany  with  Dr.  Bucke,  down  the  St.  Lawrence  and  up  the 
Saguenay.  In  this  almost  equally  picturesque  and 
stimulating  journey  and  visit,  which  lasted  from  May 
to  September,  and  which  is  in  part  recorded  in  Specimen 
Days  and  in  the  recently  published  Diary  in  Canada, 
Whitman  showed  himself  as  before  a  methodical  and 
acute  observer.  He  saw  not  only  the  beauties  of  Nature 
but  the  works  of  man,  and  everywhere  he  penetrated 
the  outward  shell,  divining  the  essentially  human  im 
portance  of  what  many  a  good  traveller  would  scarcely 
have  noticed. 

The  winter  of  1880-1881  Whitman  spent  at  Camden 
and  in  the  country,  but  in  the  spring  he  began  his 
journeyings  again,  this  time  on  a  smaller  scale.  In 
April  he  visited  Boston,  delivering  there  his  lecture  in 
commemoration  of  the  death  of  Lincoln  as  he  had 
previously  done  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia.  It 
was  a  new  Boston  that  he  found,  after  an  absence  of 
twenty  years,  larger,  busier,  more  active,  less  puritani 
cal,  and  Whitman  saw  it  with  new  eyes,  recognizing 
the  current  of  conservatism  that  ran  so  sturdily  be 
neath  the  surface.  It  was,  he  thought,  like  "  a  jolly 
old  Greek  city,"  where  people  lived  happily  because 
wisely,  and  he  admired  particularly  the  essentially 


v.]  OLD   AGE    (1873-1892)  155 

New  England  type  of  "fine-looking  gr  ay-hair 'd 
women."  He  paid  a  short  visit  to  Longfellow,  who 
had  called  on  him  several  years  before,  and  records 
in  his  diary  the  cordiality  of  Longfellow's  welcome, 
adding  an  admirably  appreciative  page  of  criticism 
of  his  work  and  that  of  Emerson,  Bryant,  and  Whit- 
tier,  "the  mighty  four  who  stamped  this  first  Ameri 
can  century  with  its  birth-marks  of  poetic  literature." 
The  crowning  pleasure  of  the  journey,  however,  was 
seeing  Mr.  Quincy  Shaw's  remarkable  collection  of 
Millet's  pictures,  by  which  he  was  greatly  impressed, 
and  in  which  he  must  have  recognized  an  analogue,  in 
many  particulars,  of  his  own  art,  highly  emotional  in 
method  and  democratic  in  subject. 

The  summer  of  1881  Whitman  spent  partly  in  Glen- 
dale,  a  cross-roads  village  near  Whitehorse,  with  the 
Staffords,  who  were  now  keeping  a  country  store,  and 
partly  in  visits  to  his  friends,  including  one,  with  Mr. 
Burroughs,  to  the  old  Whitman  homestead  at  West 
Hills  and  other  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  In  August  he 
was  in  New  York,  rediscovering  the  peculiar  charm 
and  comfort  of  the  city  in  midsummer,  and  enjoying 
especially  the  beauties  of  the  upper  portion  of  the 
island.  Staying  with  his  friends,  the  Johnstons,  at 
Mott  Haven,  he  worked  a  few  hours  each  day  on  the 
definitive  edition  of  the  Leaves  of  Grass.  One 
day  in  August,  too,  he  took  breakfast  at  Pfaff's  new 
restaurant,  the  host,  his  old  friend  of  ante-bellum 
days,  welcoming  him,  and  recalling  with  him  the  va 
rious  members  of  the  circle  that  gathered  so  regularly 
in  the  dingy  Broadway  cellar.  "And  there,"  he  re 
cords,  "Pfaff  and  I,  sitting  opposite  each  other  at  the 
little  table,  gave  a  remembrance  to  them  in  a  style 


156  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

they  would  have  themselves  fully  confirm' d,  namely, 
big,  brimming,  fill'd-up  champagne-glasses,  drain'd  in 
abstracted  silence,  very  leisurely,  to  the  last  drop." 

In  the  "  elastic,  mellow,  Indian-summery  "  autumn 
of  1881  Whitman  made  his  last  journey  to  Boston, 
lodging  at  Bullfinch's,  by  Bowdoin  Square,  correcting 
the  proofs  of  the  Leaves  of  Crrass,  which  was  at  last 
to  be  issued  by  a  distinguished  publishing  firm,  James 
K.  Osgood  and  Company,  and  spending  his  spare  time  in 
loitering  about  the  city  and  visiting  old  friends.  Mr. 
Frank  Sanborn,  whose  trial  as  an  Abolitionist  he  had 
attended,  meditating  a  rescue,  in  1861,  took  him  out 
to  Concord,  and  there  he  saw  Emerson  twice,  the 
second  time  dining  at  his  house.  Emerson  was  at 
that  time  not  wholly  in  command  of  his  faculties,  and 
quite  probably  he  did  not  always  remember  Whitman ; 
he  sat  for  the  most  part  silent,  smiling,  with  his 
habitual  expression  of  sweetness,  "  and  the  old  clear- 
peering  aspect  quite  the  same."  To  Whitman  it  was 
something  like  a  benediction,  as  he  remarked  to  his 
friends,  and  one  can  understand  the  feeling,  for  he 
had  kept  much  of  his  youthful  reverence  for  Emer 
son,  and  he  must  have  been  moved  by  the  thought 
that  he  was  ending  his  own  career  with  the  blessing 
of  one  who  had  saluted  him  so  bravely  at  its  be 
ginning.  He  was  taking  his  fill  of  life  for  the  last 
time,  with  keener  pleasure  than  ever.  Old  friends 
and  old  scenes  seemed  doubly  dear.  In  his  diary 
he  records  that  "  perhaps  the  best  is  always  cumula 
tive."  The  best  does  not  reveal  itself  at  first,  "  some 
times  suddenly  bursting  forth,  or  stealthily  opening 
to  me,  perhaps  after  years  of  unwitting  familiarity, 
unappreciation,  usage." 


v.]  OLD   AGE    (1873-1892)  157 

The  second  Boston  edition,  like  the  first,  was  ill- 
fated.  Some  two  thousand  copies  had  been  sold  when 
complaint  was  lodged  against  it  in  the  office  of  the 
attorney-general  of  Massachusetts  by  the  Society  for 
the  Suppression  of  Vice  in  Boston.  The  District 
Attorney,  apparently  without  close  examination  of 
the  points  at  issue,  thereupon  notified  the  publishers 
that  the  volume  fell  within  the  provisions  of  the 
public  statutes  respecting  obscene  literature.  The 
publishers,  who  had  approved  the  manuscript  and  had 
taken  the  volume  on  the  express  understanding  that 
the  poems  about  which  discussion  had  previously 
arisen  should  be  printed  without  change,  now  felt 
alarmed,  shrinking  timorously  from  the  thought  of  a 
trial  on  such  a  charge.  Whitman  was  willing  to  do 
whatever  he  could  to  help  them  out  of  the  difficulty 
and  agreed  to  make  various  minor  changes,  but  the 
attorney-general's  office  insisted  on  more  extensive 
alterations,  and  the  publishers  decided  to  drop  the 
book.  In  lieu  of  royalty  they  gave  Whitman  a  clear 
title  to  the  electrotype  plates,  and  these  he  put  into 
the  hands  of  a  Philadelphia  publisher  (K/ees,  Welsh 
and  Company,  soon  succeeded  by  David  McKay),  who 
sold  in  a  single  day  an  edition  of  three  thousand 
copies,  and  soon  brought  out  another  edition.  No  com 
plaint  was  brought  against  the  book  in  Pennsylvania, 
somewhat  to  the  disappointment  of  the  publisher, 
who  would  willingly  have  had  the  book  adver 
tised  in  that  way,  and  the  postmaster  at  Boston,  who 
had  excluded  the  volume  from  the  mails,  was  forced 
to  abandon  his  position  on  directions  from  his  su 
perior  officers.  And  thus,  with  the  growing  intelli 
gence  of  the  country  in  matters  of  literature,  came 


158  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

to  naught  the  last  attempt  at  public  prosecution  of 
Whitman's  work. 

The  remainder  of  1882  and  the  whole  of  1883  Whit 
man  passed  without  notable  incident,  save  the  publica 
tion  in  1882  of  Specimen  Days  and  Collect,  containing 
all  his  prose  works,  and  the  appearance  in  1883  of 
Dr.  Bucke's  biography.  In  1884,  however,  a  new 
period  of  his  life  began  with  his  removal,  March  26, 
to  a  house  of  his  own,  on  Mickle  Street,  Camden.  It 
was  a  humble  two-story  cottage,  such  as  might  have 
been  occupied  by  any  working-man  in  good  circum 
stances,  and  Whitman  bought  it  for  about  two  thou 
sand  dollars,  of  which  sum  he  had  more  than  half  in 
hand ;  the  remainder  was  lent  him  by  a  generous  Phila 
delphia  merchant.  Mickle  Street  was  well  shaded 
and  fairly  broad,  and  inhabited  by  the  kind  of  people 
Whitman  felt  most  at  home  with.  His  friends 
with  more  delicate  tastes  found  the  neighbourhood 
too  common,  the  street  too  noisy,  the  domestic 
arrangements  too  simple;  and  they  were  at  times 
offended  by  the  odours  from  a  guano  factory  across 
the  river.  But  such  things  meant  little  or  nothing  to 
Whitman ;  and  he  soon  made  himself  thoroughly 
comfortable.  For  a  while  an  elderly  working-man 
and  his  wife  kept  the  house  for  him ;  but  soon  their 
place  was  taken  by  a  competent  widow,  Mrs.  Mary 
Davis,  who  served  him  until  his  death  with  complete 
fidelity. 

The  front  room  downstairs  was  a  sort  of  office  and 
an  antechamber  for  the  reception  of  callers,  and  con 
tained  the  unsold  copies  of  such  editions  of  his  books 
as  were  not  handled  by  his  Philadelphia  publishers. 
His  real  dwelling-place  was  a  large  room  above,  only 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  159 

partly  carpeted,  and  heated  by  a  little  stove.  Its 
contents  have  been  described  in  detail  by  an  English 
visitor,  Dr.  Johnston  :  — 

"All  around  him  were  books,  manuscripts,  letters,  papers, 
magazines,  parcels  tied  up  with  bits  of  string,  photographs,  and 
literary  materiel,  which  was  piled  on  the  table  a  yard  high, 
rilled  two  or  three  wastepaper  baskets,  flowed  over  them  on  to 
the  floor,  beneath  the  table,  on  to  and  under  the  chairs,  bed, 
washstand,  etc.,  so  that  whenever  he  moved  from  his  chair  he 
had  literally  to  wade  through  this  sea  of  chaotic  disorder  and 
confusion.  And  yet  it  was  no  disorder  to  him,  for  he  knew  where 
to  lay  his  hands  upon  whatever  he  wanted,  in  a  few  moments. 

"  His  apartment  is  roomy,  almost  square,  with  three  win 
dows  —  one  blinded  up  —  facing  the  north.  The  boarded  floor 
is  partly  carpeted,  and  on  the  east  side  stands  an  iron  stove 
with  stove  pipe  partly  in  the  room.  On  the  top  of  the  stove  is 
a  little  tin  mug.  Opposite  the  stove  is  a  large  wooden  bed 
stead,  over  the  head  of  which  hang  portraits  of  his  father  and 
mother.  Near  the  bed,  under  the  blinded-up  window,  is  the 
washstand,  a  plain  wooden  one,  with  a  white  wash-jug  and 
basin.  There  are  two  large  tables  in  the  room,  one  between 
the  stove  and  the  window,  and  one  between  that  and  the  wash- 
stand.  Both  of  these  are  piled  up  with  all  sorts  of  paper, 
scissorings,  proof-sheets,  books,  etc.,  etc.  Some  big  boxes  and 
a  few  chairs  complete  the  furniture.  On  the  walls,  and  on  the 
mantel  piece,  are  pinned  or  tacked  various  pictures  and  photo 
graphs.  He  himself  sits  between  the  two  windows,  with  his 
back  to  the  stove,  in  the  huge  cane  chair." 

In  this  frugal,  comfortable,  and  characteristic  man 
ner  Whitman  passed  the  remaining  years  of  his  life. 
Living  as  a  working-man  and  among  working-men,  he 
was  rich  in  acquaintances  and  friendships  with  that 
part  of  the  community,  young  and  old.  Men  stopped 
to  chat  with  him  as  he  sat  in  front  of  his  door,  the 
children  played  about  him,  and  he  saw  to  it  that  the 
sick  and  the  unfortunate  shared  what  prosperity  was 


160  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

his.  For  drivers  in  Philadelphia  he  had  a  special 
fondness  and,  as  the  agent  of  others  of  larger  means, 
he  took  pleasure  in  seeing  that  they  did  not  lack  stout 
gloves  and  warm  coats.  But  his  relations  were  by 
no  means  confined  to  working-men  and  their  families. 
He  was  a  welcome  and  honoured  guest  at  the  houses 
of  several  well-to-do  Philadelphians ;  his  old  friends 
O'Connor,  Burroughs,  Bucke,  came  often  to  see  him ; 
and,  most  important  of  all,  a  little  band  of  new  friends 
from  Camden  itself,  chief  among  whom  were  Mr. 
Traubel  and  Mr.  Harned,  were  gathering  about 
him,  —  a  group  of  younger  disciples,  who  considered 
themselves  as  his  bodyguard.  And  there  were  hosts  of 
visitors  from  abroad  and  at  home,  distinguished  trav 
ellers  with  letters  of  introduction,  simpler  men  and 
women  who  loved  his  work  and  wanted  to  press  his 
hand  for  an  instant,  besides  the  crowd  of  mere  auto 
graph  seekers  and  cranks.  He  was  impatient  with 
the  notoriety  hunter,  or  the  extremist  of  any  kind ; 
but  the  gentle-mannered,  open-minded  visitor  he  re 
ceived  cordially,  whatever  his  status  might  be  in  the 
world;  such  men  became  at  once  his  friends.  Indeed, 
the  spontaneity  of  his  comradeship  was  such  that  for 
mal  introduction  was  not  necessary  ;  names  and  titles 
counted  for  nothing  ;  whether  one  had  known  him  for 
years  or  was  seeing  him.  for  the  first  time  was  a  mat 
ter  of  indifference ;  he  cared  not.  A  complete  stran 
ger,  in  a  sympathetic  account  of  a  first  visit  to  him, 
relates  that  he  found  him  sitting  in  the  open  air. 
After  a  quick  glance  Whitman  welcomed  him  with 
cordiality  and  began  to  talk  freely  and  affectionately, 
and  when  he  rose  to  go,  said,  "  Come  again,  son.  You 
come  so  rarely."  One  is  reminded  of  Orientals  so  high 


v.]  OLD   AGE    (1873-1892)  161 

in  caste  that  caste  becomes  meaningless,  so  deep  in  the 
secrets  of  life  that  distinctions  fade  away,  and  all 
men  are  to  them  really  brothers. 

The  royalties  on  Whitman's  books  were  not  large, 
and  seemed  to  be  dwindling,  so  that  his  income  from 
such  sources  was  irregular  and  at  times  scarcely  suffi 
cient  even  for  his  simple  needs.  But  now  and  then 
some  of  his  new  verses  appeared  in  periodicals  and 
were  well  paid  for,  and  he  was  for  years  kept  on  the 
staff  of  the  New  York  Herald,  receiving  a  small  but 
regular  remittance,  and  furnishing  verses  as  he  felt 
inclined.  His  friends,  too,  were  always  trying  to  aid 
him  in  one  way  or  another.  In  1886,  his  English 
friends  collected  for  him  a  fund  of  about  a  hundred 
pounds  and  in  the  following  year  his  Boston  friends 
sent  him  eight  hundred  dollars,  intended  at  first  to 
provide  for  a  cottage  at  Timber  Creek.  In  the  same 
year,  his  friends  in  New  York  and  Philadelphia  ar 
ranged  for  him  to  give  his  Lincoln  lecture  again  in 
each  city,  before  a  distinguished  audience,  and  under 
circumstances  that  brought  him  considerable  sums. 
His  new  friends  in  Camden  took  on  themselves  many 
expenses  connected  with  his  illness,  and  whenever  any 
special  need  arose  in  his  later  life,  it  had  only  to  reach 
the  ears  or  eyes  of  any  of  his  friends  for  some  one's 
purse  to  be  opened  at  once.  As  Mr.  Donaldson  states 
in  his  excellent  volume  of  reminiscences,  "  there  was 
after  1882  a  settled  determination  in  the  United  States 
that  Mr.  Whitman  should  not  want  for  the  essentials 
of  a  good  livelihood,  and  this  was  faithfully  seen  to." 
All  these  favours  he  took  gratefully,  with  the  grace  of 
a  man  who  had  always  paid  his  way,  but  who  in  his 
old  age  was  willing  to  receive  from  his  friends  what 

M 


162  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

he  would,  in  other  circumstances,  have  been  glad  to 
give.  Prudently  setting  aside  whatever  he  did  not  at 
the  moment  need  for  himself  or  for  the  expenses  of 
his  youngest  brother,  of  which  he  had  for  years  borne 
half,  he  was  able  to  accumulate  a  little  fund  that 
would  have  secured  him  against  want  or  disaster  in  any 
great  emergency,  and  that  provided  for  the  future  of 
his  brother  and  paid  for  the  granite  tomb  which  he 
had  built,  and  in  which  he  desired  that  his  bones  should 
rest,  together  with  those  of  his  father  and  mother. 

The  habit  of  composition  was  deeply  ingrained  in 
Whitman ;  it  may  almost  be  said  that  he  did  not  stop 
writing  until  he  stopped  living,  though  the  volume  of 
his  production  (and  to  some  degree  its  value)  gradually 
diminished  as  his  physical  force  abated.  In  1888, 
while  still  very  ill,  he  saw  through  the  press  his  No 
vember  BougliSj  containing  a  score  or  more  of  new 
poems,  together  with  a  considerable  amount  of  prose, 
—  in  particular,  articles  on  Elias  Hicks  and  George 
Fox,  both  of  whom,  as  men  led  by  the  inner  light  and 
the  inner  voice,  seemed  to  him  to  be  his  spiritual 
kinsmen.  In  1891,  at  the  very  verge  of  life,  he  pub 
lished  a  few  further  poems  with  the  pathetic  title, 
Good-bye,  my  Fancy  !  The  closing  poem,  which  gave 
the  name  to  the  volume,  has  a  touch  (perhaps  a  remi 
niscence)  of  the  animula  vagula,  blandula :  — 

"  Good-bye,  my  Fancy  ! 

Farewell,  dear  mate,  dear  love  ! 

I'm  going  away,  I  know  not  where, 

Or  to  what  fortune,  or  whether  I  may  ever  see  you  again, 

So  Good-bye,  my  Fancy. 
"  Now  for  my  last  —  let  me  look  back  a  moment ; 

The  slower  fainter  ticking  of  the  clock  is  in  me, 

Exit,  nightfall,  and  soon  the  heart-thud  stopping. 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  163 

Long  have  we  lived,  joy'd,  caress'd  together  ; 
Delightful !  —  now  separation  —  Good-bye,  my  Fancy. 

"  Yet  let  me  not  be  too  hasty, 
Long  indeed  have  we    lived,    slept,  filter'd,  become  really 

blended  into  one  ; 

Then  if  we  die  we  die  together,  (yes,  we1 11  remain  one, ) 
If  we  go  anywhere  we'll  go  together  to  meet  what  happens, 
May-be  we'll  be  better  off  and  blither,  and  learn  something, 
May-be  it  is  yourself  now  really  ushering  me  to  the  true 

songs,  (who  knows  ?) 
May -be  it  is  you  the  mortal  knob  really  undoing,  turning — so 

now  finally, 
Good-bye  —  and  hail !  my  Fancy . ' ' 

But  he  had  still  another  little  handful  ready  before 
his  death,  which  his  executors,  Dr.  Bucke,  Mr.  Traubel, 
and  Mr.  Harned,  issued  under  the  title,  chosen  by 
Whitman  himself,  of  Old  Age  Echoes.  One  of  these 
poems,  A  TJiought  of  Columbus,  now  printed  at  the  end 
of  the  definitive  edition  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  was  his  last 
deliberate  composition. 

As  a  helper  on  the  mechanical  side  in  the  prepara 
tion  of  November  Soughs  and  his  last  literary  work, 
and  as  his  devoted  and  unselfish  friend,  Whitman  was 
fortunate  in  having  Mr.  Horace  Traubel,  whom  he 
loved  as  a  grandson,  and  who  encompassed  him  with 
all  manner  of  affectionate  solicitude.  And  it  is  to  Mr. 
Traubel,  moreover,  that  the  world  is  indebted  for  the 
publication  of  parts  of  a  diary  which  he  kept  for  years, 
setting  down  therein  with  great  detail  the  record  of 
his  daily  intercourse  with  Whitman.  Pressed  by  the 
questions  of  this  young  and  ardent  disciple,  the  veteran 
told  bit  by  bit  the  long  story  of  his  tenacious  struggle 
for  his  creed  against  the  allied  forces  of  conventional 
ity,  giving  fitting  honour  to  those  who  had  early  or  late 


164  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

joined  his  ranks,  and  pointing  out  each  vantage  gained 
as,  decade  after  decade,  the  conflict  wore  on.  The 
Leaves  of  Grass  had  come  in  his  eyes  to  be  more  than 
a  book :  it  was  an  attitude  toward  life,  a  test  of  liber 
ality  of  mind  and  democratic  feeling,  almost  a  doctrine. 
In  all  this,  however,  there  was  nothing  immodest,  no 
touch  of  the  complacent  braggart,  but  rather  the  honest 
delight  of  a  very  old  man  in  the  fact  that  his  vision  of 
the  world  as  love  was  no  longer  rejected  by  all  men. 

Mr.  Traubel  has  recorded,  too,  Whitman's  passing 
judgments,  delivered  in  their  intimate  conversation, 
without  rancour  but  without  reserve,  on  his  literary 
contemporaries.  These  were  always  trenchant,  and 
sometimes  seem  unduly  severe.  It  must  be  remembered, 
however,  that  Whitman  had  consistently  held  himself 
aloof  from  the  literary  guild  and  from  what  might  be 
called  the  literary  or  educated  or  cultivated  class. 
Like  many  men  who  have  toiled  with  their  hands 
and  lived  frugally  with  those  who  toil,  he  had  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  a  mistrust  for  the  gentleman  per 
se,  the  person  who  dresses  according  to  his  tailor's 
code,  thinks  in  terms  of  the  code  of  the  schools,  and 
conforms  to  the  elaborate  conventions  of  society. 
Similarly,  he  was  unfriendly  to  what  he  called  the  West 
Point  way  of  taking  literature,  the  martinets'  fashion, 
as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  technique,  of  precedents  and 
tradition.  "  Style  "  reminded  him  of  artificial  flowers. 
And  men  of  this  alien  class,  men  who  had  at  their 
pleasure  accepted  his  work  with  limitations  and  res 
ervations  or  rejected  it  entirely,  were  in  their  turn 
accepted  by  him,  at  his  pleasure,  with  his  own  reserva 
tions,  or  rejected  entirely.  Professors  and  preachers 
and  philosophers,  in  particular,  all  those  who  give 


v.]  OLD  AGE   (1873-1892)  165 

assent  only  after  due  deliberation,  after  checking  their 
emotion  by  their  logic,  —  these  he  valued  less  highly 
than  such  as  yielded  themselves  freely,  without  analysis, 
to  the  promptings  of  the  spirit  within  them.  It  is  too 
early  to  evaluate  such  criticism ;  but  he  spoke  with 
the  voice  of  Demos,  and  the  voice  of  Demos  is  very 
often  that  of  posterity. 

Whitman's  vital  force  failed  gradually,  but  in  1885 
he  suffered  a  slight  sunstroke,  and  this  marked  the  close 
of  his  last  period  of  roving  and  the  beginning  of  closer 
confinement.  As  walking  now  became  more  difficult 
for  him,  his  closer  friends  planned  a  fund  to  buy  him 
an  easy-riding  buggy  and  a  good  horse.  The  older 
men  of  letters  throughout  the  country  took  their  share 
in  this  gladly,  and  their  thoughtful  cooperation  in  such 
a  timely  gift  delighted  Whitman  no  less  than  the  gift 
itself.  Thenceforward  he  drove  regularly  and  fre 
quently —  and,  it  must  be  added,  often  at  a  speed 
somewhat  unbecoming  his  years,  having  exchanged 
the  safe  beast  presented  to  him  for  one  of  a  livelier 
gait.  Only  rarely,  in  these  later  years,  did  he  leave 
Camden  or  Philadelphia,  but  in  1887  he  read  his 
Lincoln  lecture  at  the  Madison  Square  Theatre,  and 
afterward  met  his  friends  at  a  reception  at  the  West 
minster  Hotel.  In  June,  1888,  just  after  his  sixty- 
ninth  birthday,  he  was  driving  by  the  Delaware  at  sun 
set.  The  scene  was  one  of  unusual  splendour  and  he 
urged  his  horse  out  into  the  shallow  river,  and  there, 
in  contemplation  of  the  sky  and  the  water,  spent  "  an 
unspeakable  hour,"  as  he  described  it,  of  ecstasy.  The 
evening  air  chilled  him,  however,  and  he  suffered  sev 
eral  slight  attacks  of  paralysis,  for  the  first  time  losing 
temporarily  the  power  of  speech.  For  some  days  it 


166  WALT  WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

did  not  seem  possible  that  he  could  recover,  but  his 
dogged  persistency  of  will  brought  him  back  to  life 
again,  and  allowed  him,  by  working  for  short  periods, 
to  see  November  Boughs  through  the  press  in  his  usual 
painstaking  fashion. 

During  the  winter  of  1888-1889  he  was  virtually  a 
prisoner,  and  sat  by  the  fire  in  his  big  arm-chair.  The 
horse  and  buggy  were  now  sold,  and  he  moved  about 
on  the  arm  of  his  nurse,  Warren  Fritzinger,  Mrs.  Davis's 
son,  or  in  an  invalid's  chair.  At  the  end  of  May  he 
sat  for  a  while  at  the  great  dinner  given  in  his  honour 
on  his  birthday,  a  quasi-public  function  in  the  largest 
hall  in  Camden.  The  succeeding  winter  passed  in  the 
same  fashion,  but  in  February,  1890,  he  read  his  Lincoln 
lecture  for  the  last  time  before  an  audience  in  Camden, 
and  on  his  birthday  he  attended  a  dinner  in  his 
honour  in  Philadelphia,  at  the  close  of  which  Colonel 
Ingersoll  spoke  long  and  eloquently  in  his  praise.  In 
October,  Mr.  Ingersoll  spoke  on  the  same  topic  before 
a  large  audience  in  Philadelphia,  and  Whitman  sat  on 
the  platform,  taking  the  praises  showered  on  him  with 
the  unaffected  pleasure  of  the  old  man  who  looks  back 
on  the  exploits  of  his  earlier  life  almost  as  on  those  of 
another  person  ;  though  he  thought  there  was  too  much 
"  guff  and  taffy,"  he  knew  that  it  sprang  from  good-will 
and  affection. 

The  winter  of  1890-1891  was  one  of  confinement  and 
illness.  "The  main  abutments  and  dikes,"  he  said, 
were  now  "  shattered  and  threatening  to  give  out." 
The  poems  in  Good-bye,  my  Fancy,  which  was  pub 
lished  late  in  1891,  he  spoke  of  as  his  "  last  chirps." 
"  In  fact,"  he  said  in  the  preface,  "  here  I  am  these 
current  years  1890  and  '91,  (each  successive  fortnight 


v.]  OLD  AGE   (1873-1892)  167 

getting  stiffer  and  stuck  deeper)  much  like  some  hard- 
cased  dilapidated  grim  ancient  shell-fish  or  time-bang'd 
conch  (no  legs,  utterly  non-locomotive)  cast  up  high 
and  dry  on  the  shore-sands,  helpless  to  move  any 
where —  nothing  left  but  behave  myself  quiet,  and 
while  away  the  days  yet  assign'd,  and  discover  if  there 
is  anything  for  the  said  grim  and  time-bang'd  conch  to 
be  got  at  last  out  of  inherited  good  spirits  and  primal 
buoyant  centre-pulses  down  there  deep  somewhere 
within  his  gray-blurr'd  old  shell."  Slowly  he  grew 
more  frail  and  more  feeble,  and  his  hoary  head,  resting 
on  the  wolfskin  in  the  heavy  old  chair,  was  like  that 
of  an  aged  prophet.  But  he  was  present  at  his  last 
birthday  dinner,  given  in  his  house,  and  bore  himself 
with  gayety.  Still  he  kept  busy,  so  far  as  his  strength 
allowed,  with  reading  and  writing,  but  he  was  notice 
ably  more  silent,  sitting  for  hours  in  quiet  meditation. 
In  1891  the  gray  granite  tomb  was  completed,  and 
the  ashes  of  his  father  and  mother  transported  thither. 
All  was  ready  for  its  other  occupant,  and  he  did  not 
long  tarry.  The  consulting  physician  who  examined 
him  early  in  the  year  found  no  evidence  of  gross 
organic  disease,  but  recorded  that  his  apparent  age 
was  greater  than  his  real  years.  He  complained  of 
"torpor  inertia  —  as  though  a  great  wet  soggy  net 
were  spread  over  me  and  holding  me  down."  His  own 
diagnosis  was  interesting  :  "  possibly,"  he  wrote  to  the 
physician,  "  that  slow,  vital,  almost  impalpable  by-play 
of  automatic  stimulus  belonging  to  living  fibre  has,  by 
gradual  habit  of  years  and  years  in  me  (and  espe 
cially  of  the  last  three  years),  got  quite  diverted  into 
mental  play  and  vitality  and  muscular  use."  In  other 
words  the  mind  was  ceasing  to  inform  the  body  and 


168  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

recoiling  upon  itself.  The  physician  agreed  with  him 
that  there  might  be  a  great  deal  in  the  hypothesis; 
but  the  post-mortem  examination  showed  that  deep- 
seated  pathological  processes  were  at  that  time  going 
on.  Almost  to  the  end  of  the  year  he  kept  up  his 
mental  activity.  "Never  idle,"  notes  Dr.  Longaker, 
"  he  sat  surrounded  by  a  vast  heap  of  books,  papers, 
manuscripts,  and  what  not,  always  busied  in  some 
thing."  On  December  17  a  sharp  chill  presaged  the 
setting  in  of  pneumonia.  Soon  very  little  of  the  lung 
surface  was  active,  and  his  spirit  seemed  on  the 
point  of  departure,  but  his  stubborn  vitality  rallied, 
and  he  lived  for  nearly  three  months.  He  still  in 
sisted  each  day  on  reading  the  papers,  and  he  sent 
messages,  and  wrote  short  notes,  and  did  not  until  the 
end  lose  hold  entirely  of  the  actual  world,  though  he 
lay  for  hours  in  a  state  of  acute  quiescence,  with  all 
his  senses  active  but  turned  inward,  so  to  speak.  He 
suffered  acutely  and  constantly,  slept  little  and  rest 
lessly,  and  became  greatly  emaciated,  but  kept  his 
characteristic  charm  and  cheerfulness.  At  last,  on 
March  26,  the  exhausted  vital  flame  flickered  and 
then  went  out.  The  physicians  who  made  the  post 
mortem  examination  thought  it  marvellous  that  he 
could  have  lived  so  long.  "  It  was  no  doubt  due  largely 
to  that  indomitable  will  pertaining  to  Walt  Whitman. 
Another  would  have  died  much  earlier  with  one-half 
of  the  pathological  changes  that  existed  in  his  body." 
On  March  30,  the  little  cottage  was,  for  some  hours, 
open  to  the  procession  of  thousands  who  wished  to 
look  once  more  upon  his  face.  Many  had  come  from 
afar,  but  the  great  mass  were  the  people  of  the  town, 
working-men  and  women  and  children.  In  the  after- 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  169 

noon  the  funeral  services  were  held  in  the  open  air, 
in  the  presence  of  a  multitude,  at  the  cemetery.  His 
older  and  nearer  friends  made  brief  addresses,  and 
one  of  them  read  passages  from  the  sacred  writings 
of  various  peoples,  all  expressing  belief  in  the  im 
mortality  of  the  soul.  There  was  little  mourning  for 
the  poet  and  seer  who  had  lived  to  the  term  of  his 
natural  years,  but  rather  joy  in  his  love  and  thankful 
ness  for  his  influence.  To  those  who  might  be  called 
his  disciples,  it  was  a  day  of  heightened,  joyful  emo 
tion.  "  We  are  at  the  summit,"  said  one.  Their  great 
leader  had  fulfilled  his  earthly  mission. 

A  short  biography  has  no  room  for  critical  analy 
sis,  nor  is  it  its  function  to  provide  it,  particularly 
when  the  subject  is  a  writer  so  near  to  us  in  point 
of  time.  Generations  must  pass  before  opinion  hard 
ens  and  unifies.  It  may  not  be  too  early,  however, 
to  guess  at  the  present  trend  in  the  estimate  of 
Whitman's  poetry.  In  the  years  immediately  follow 
ing  the  publication  of  Leaves  of  Grass,  his  contempo 
raries  were  much  exercised  over  elements  in  his  work 
that  do  not  now  attract  great  attention.  Then  they 
were  bewildered  by  his  form  of  free  verse ;  now  the 
boundaries  of  taste  and  appreciation  have  been  much 
enlarged,  and  our  increasing  acquaintance  with  Orien 
tal  poetry  and  the  general  movement  toward  free  verse 
in  English  and  in  other  literatures  have  greatly  dimin 
ished  the  prejudice.  Whitman's  rhymeless  and  faintly 
rhythmical  form  seems  less  and  less  an  innovation 
and  more  and  more  to  be  merely  one  of  the  many 
known  ways  of  producing  poetic  effects.  Then  the 
public  was  startled  by  the  degree  to  which  he  stressed 


170  WALT    WHITMAN  [CHAP. 

the  facts  of  sex.  Now  we  are  less  inclined  to  dogma 
tism  on  the  content  of  poetry,  and  in  any  event  we 
understand  that  Whitman's  seeming  insistence  in  such 
matters  was  connected  with  his  larger  theory  of  the 
ideal  state  and,  further,  that  the  emphasis  of  the 
greater  part  of  his  work  falls  elsewhere.  Then  critics 
found  his  personality  turbulent  and  egotistic :  the  bar 
baric  yaup  that  he  sounded  over  the  roofs  of  the 
world  was  thought  to  be  his  own  braggart  voice. 
Now  we  see  that  he  spoke  as  the  symbol  of  democ 
racy. 

There  remains  only  one  element  of  Whitman's  verse 
to  which  the  public  at  large  is  still  somewhat  un 
friendly  —  his  multitudinous  inventories  and  cata 
logues,  and  about  this  point  the  critics  are  still  at  vari 
ance.  It  begins  to  grow  clearer,  however,  that  this 
element  is  of  the  very  essence  of  his  art ;  that  it  was 
perhaps  actually  the  origin  of  his  art.  It  was,  I  sur 
mise,  through  the  psychological  process  of  which  the  in 
ventory  is  the  sign  that  he  reached  the  peculiar  state  of 
consciousness  by  virtue  of  which  he  is  a  poet ;  and  the 
inventory  is  the  test  of  the  reader's  ability  to  follow 
him  in  this  process.  Whoever  would  have  the  mystic's 
poetic  illusion  must  use  the  mystic's  means.  If  this 
be  true,  it  follows  that  this  special  method  has  limited 
very  considerably  the  general  appreciation  of  Whit 
man's  poetry.  From  this  point  of  view,  as  from  others, 
Whitman  may  perhaps  be  best  regarded  as  a  forerun 
ner.  The  peculiarly  cosmic  quality  of  his  verse,  its 
power  of  unifying  details  infinite  in  number  and  heter 
ogeneous  in  character,  is  due  to  the  method  of  ex 
pression  which  he  devised;  but  the  method  reveals 
his  great  vision  only  to  a  few.  Possibly,  as  time 


v.]  OLD  AGE    (1873-1892)  171 

wears  on,  there  will  come  others,  stimulated  by  him 
to  embrace  the  whole  framework  of  the  world  in  their 
sympathy,  who  will  discover  a  medium  less  mystical, 
more  intellectual,  which  will  not  prove  such  a  barrier. 
Or,  perhaps,  the  unities  of  the  universe  will  never 
be  grasped  save  in  the  mystic's  vision,  and  never  ex 
pressed  in  verse  save  for  those  that  can  follow  his 
steps  at  a  great  distance. 

Nor  have  we  space  for  an  extended  treatment  of 
Whitman's  literary  relationships — of  the  writers  that 
influenced  him  and  the  writers  whom  he  has  in 
fluenced.  Fortunately,  such  an  inquiry  is  not  of  great 
importance  in  Whitman's  case.  He  was  little  in 
fluenced  by  books.  When  his  [mind  was  simmering, 
as  he  once  said,  Emerson  helped  to  bring  it  to  a  boil ; 
but  he  was  never  a  man  of  books,  and  so  far  as  his 
ideas  were  conditioned  by  those  of  others  it  was 
rather  by  the  whole  widely  diffused  spirit  of  Ameri 
can,  English,  and  German  transcendentalism  than  by 
any  particular  work  or  author.  His  influence  on  other 
writers  has  been  somewhat  more  marked,  and  can  be 
traced  in  several  literatures.  But  the  new  form  in 
which  he  cast  his  expression  was  one  of  which  he 
alone  held  the  delicate  secret.  No  one  else  has 
succeeded  in  mastering  it,  and  his  influence  has 
tended  to  blend  and  assimilate  itself  with  all  the 
cognate  forces  that  lead  to  the  expression  of  similar 
ideas  in  free  verse. 

Whitman  has  been  often  likened  to  Eousseau,  to 
Carlyle,  to  Browning,  to  Tolstoi,  and  to  Nietsche,  and 
there  are  obvious  similarities  in  each  case.  The 
points  of  dissimilarity,  however,  are  even  more  strik- 


172  WALT   WHITMAN  [CHAP.  v. 

ing.  Eousseau  was  less  robust ;  Carlyle,  less  positive 
in  his  influence ;  Browning,  more  analytic  and  in 
tellectual  ;  Nietsche,  more  insurgent  and  rebellious  ; 
Tolstoi,  more  ascetic  and  conscience-haunted.  Whit 
man's  analogues,  I  suspect,  are  rather  to  be  found 
in  great  personalities,  in  men  who  represent  a 
new  attitude,  in  men  who  bring  a  message  to  their 
brothers,  a  truth  mainly  expressed  in  their  lives 
and  only  incidentally  through  their  writings,  —  such 
men,  shall  we  say,  as  Francis  of  Assisi,  or  George 
Fox,  or  many  an  Oriental  teacher  of  earlier  or  later 
times.  These  are  the  great  accepters  and  unifiers  of 
life;  their  teachings  and  examples  pass  beyond  the 
confines  of  literature  or  politics ;  they  show  new  and 
noble  ways  of  living.  Of  this  type,  in  his  own  degree, 
Whitman  seems  to  me  to  have  been.  He  is  the  first 
and  the  most  notable  of  those  who,  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  in  Europe  and  in  America,  preached  the 
vision  of  the  world  as  love  and  comradeship. 


INDEX 


Alcott,  Bronson,  76. 
American  Primer,  79. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  111. 
Ashton,  J.  H.,  107, 129. 

Beecher,  H.  W.,  76. 

Bjornson,  135. 

Blake,  41. 

Browning,  Robert,  171. 

Bryant,  76,  155. 

Buchanan,  Robert,  143. 

Bucke,  R.  M.,  7,  8,  13,  23,  52,  94, 

96, 116,  146,  149,  154,  160,  163, 
Burroughs,  John,  7,  63,  76,  96 

113,  129,  151,  155,  160. 

Calamus,  116. 

Carlyle,  62,  66,  122,  125,  171. 
Carpenter,  Edward,  147. 
Chase,  S.  P.,  106. 
Conway,  M.  D.,  76. 

Dana,  C.  A.,  75. 
Davis,  Mrs.  Mary,  158,  166. 
Democratic  Vistas,  121, 127. 
Diary  in  Canada,  154. 
Donaldson,  Thomas,  161. 
Dowden,  Edward,  133,  135. 
Doyle,  Peter,  114,  128,  129,  140 

141. 
Drum-taps,  98. 

Eldridge,  C.  W.,  83,  91,  96,  98 

129. 
Emerson,  36,  43,  47,  62,  65,  73 

84,  106,  155,  156,  171. 

Fox,  George,  162,  172. 
Francis  of  Assisi,  172. 


Franklin  Evans,  18,  28. 
Freiligrath,  Ferdinand,  132. 
rritzinger,  Warren,  166. 

Gilchrist,  Mrs.  Anne,  135,  136, 
151. 
ood  Gray  Poet,  The,  108. 

Hale,  E.  E.,  64. 
Harlan,  James,  107. 
Harned,  T.  B.,  160, 163. 
Hawthorne,  28. 
Hicks,  Elias,  17, 162. 
Holmes,  47. 
Houghton,  Lord,  76. 
Ho  wells,  W.  D.,  77. 

Ingersoll,  R.  G.,  166. 

James,  William,  50,  53. 
Johnston,  Dr.  John,  159. 
Johnston,  J.  H.,  155. 

Leaves  of  Grass,  first  appear 
ance,  56;  summary  of,  57-60; 
sale,  61;  reception,  61-65;  ap 
proval  of  Emerson,  65;  W.'s 
reviews  of,  67  ;  second  edition, 
75;  third  edition,  Boston,  83; 
fifth  edition,  119;  summary  of, 
119-122;  English  edition,  selec 
tions,  134;  sixth  edition,  142. 

Longfellow,  36,  47,  155. 

Lowell,  47,  51,  85. 

Memoranda  of  the  War,  144. 
Myers,  F.  W.,  132. 
173 


174 


INDEX 


Nietsche,  171. 

November  Soughs,  162,  166. 

O'Connor,  W.  D.,  83,  90,  95,  108, 
113,  129 ;  The  Good  Gray  Poet, 
108;  The  Carpenter,  130. 

Old  Age  Echoes,  163. 

Ossian,  41. 

Pfaff's  restaurant,  35,  77,  155. 
Plato,  125,  152. 
Poe,  27,  28. 

Rossetti,   W.   M.,   132,   134,  135: 

143,  144. 
Rousseau,  171. 
Ruskin,  40,  49. 

Sanborn,  F.  B.,  156. 
Schmidt,  Rudolf,  135. 
Scott,  F.  N.,  40. 
Seward,  W.  H.,  106. 
Specimen  Days,  9,  150,  154,  158. 
Stafford,  George,  144,  151,  155. 
Stedman,  E.  C.,  96. 
Stillman,  W.  J.,  64. 
Swinburne,  132,  133, 135. 
Swinton,  John,  93. 
Symonds,  J.  A.,  51,  63, 133. 

Taylor,  "Father,"  85. 
Tennyson,  51,  54,  67. 
Thoreau,  35,  62,  76. 
Tolstoi,  171. 

Traubel,  Horace,  160,  163,  164. 
Trowbridge,  J.  T.,  83,  99,  106. 
Tupper,  M.  F.,  41. 
Two  Rivulets,  142. 

Warren,  Samuel,  42. 
Whitman,  Andrew  Jackson,  13 

34,96. 
Whitman,  Edward,   13,   34,    50 

162. 
Whitman,   George  Washington 

13,   33,   38,  61,  89,  90,  96,  129 

138. 


Whitman,  Hannah,  13,  34,  127. 
Yhitman,  Jess  3,  13,  50. 
Whitman,  Mrs.  Louisa,  7,  13,  16, 

34,  61,  96,  97,  98,  129. 
Whitman,  Martha,  34,  130. 
Whitman,  Thomas  Jefferson,  13, 

19,  96, 154. 
Whitman,  Walter,  Senior,  8,  13, 

33,  34. 

Whitman ,  Walt.  Life :  Hunting- 
ton  in  the  old  times,  1-7 ;  his 
ancestors,  4-8 ;  reminiscences 
of  his  country  life,  8-11; 
Brooklyn  in  his  boyhood,  11; 
first  employment,  14 ;  compos 
itor,  14,  18;  teacher,  15,  16; 
editor,  15,  18, 19,  20 ;  his  start 
in  life,  16-18;  journey  South, 
19 ;  his  appearance  and  habits, 
20 ;  mental  characteristics,  21 ; 
his  wide  acquaintance,  23-25; 
early  prose,  26-29 ;  early  verse, 
29 ;  editorial  writing,  30 ;  lack 
of  distinction,  32;  again  an 
editor,  34;  carpenter  and 
builder,  34 ;  habits  of  life,  34 ; 
reading,  35;  his  passion  for 
people,  37;  daguerreotypes  of 
1854,  34;  personal  character 
istics,  39;  origins  of  his  new 
style,  39-45 ;  plan  of  lecturing, 
45,  77,  98;  his  message,  46-49; 
a  mystic,  49-56;  Leaves  of 
Grass,  56-75 ;  comradeship,  80- 
83;  visit  to  Boston,  83-85;  be 
comes  a  hospital  nurse,  90-98 ; 
weakened  health,  97;  Drum- 
taps,  99-106 ;  becomes  a  govern 
ment  clerk,  106;  dismissed, 
107;  new  appointment,  107; 
protests  by  O'Connor,  108-112; 
his  life  in  Washington,  112; 
friendship  with  Peter  Doyle, 
113-119;  Democratic  Vistas,  121- 
126;  visit  to  Dartmouth,  127; 
failing  health,  128;  paralysis, 
129;  increased  appreciation  of 


INDEX 


175 


his  work,  130;  O'Connor's 
The  Carpenter,  130  ;  biography 
by  Burroughs,  130;  apprecia 
tion  abroad,  132-138;  illness 
in  Camden,  138-140;  his 
fortunes  turn,  142;  help  from 
abroad,  143;  recuperation  in 
the  country,  144 ;  reminiscences 
by  Dr.  Bucke,  146;  by  Edward 
Carpenter,  147 ;  his  appearance 
at  this  period,  147 ;  mental 
characteristics,  149 ;  journey  to 
the  West,  151 ;  to  Canada,  154 ; 
visit  to  Boston,  154;  and  to 
old  scenes,  155;  last  visit 
to  Boston,  156;  his  house 
in  Camden,  158;  friends  and 
acquaintances  in  old  age,  159- 
162;  last  poems,  162;  his 
Camden  disciples,  163;  his 
criticism  of  his  contempora 
ries,  164;  last  days  and  death, 
165-168;  critical  estimate,  169- 
172. 

Poems  referred  to  :  After  all, 
not  to  create  only,  118;  As  a 
strong  bird  on  pinions  free, 
126 ;  As  I  ebb'd  with  the  ocean 
of  life,  85;  A  thought  of 
Columbus,  163;  A  woman 


waits  for  me,  70;  Crossing 
Brooklyn  Ferry,  72 ;  Good-bye, 
my  fancy,  162,  166;  Mystic 
trumpeter,  127 ;  Now  finale  to 
the  shore,  121 ;  O  captain !  my 
captain,  94 ;  Out  of  the  cradle 
endlessly  rocking,  9,  50 ;  Pas 
sage  to  India,  119 ;  Prayer  of 
Columbus,  141;  Salut  au 
monde,  71 ;  Song  of  the  broad- 
axe,  72 ;  Song  of  the  open  road, 
72 ;  Song  of  the  redwood  tree, 
141;  Song  of  the  universal, 
141;  Spirit  that  formed  this 
scene,  153;  There  was  a  child 
went  forth,  9;  Unfolded,  70; 
When  lilacs  last  in  the  door- 
yard  bloomed,  99,  105;  Whis 
pers  of  heavenly  death,  121. 

Works:  early  prose,  26-29, 
30;  early  prose,  29.  See  also 
American  Primer,  Calamus, 
Democratic  Vistas,  Diary  in 
Canada,  Drum-taps,  Franklin 
Evans,  Leaves  of  Grass,  Mem 
oranda  of  the  War,  Old  Age 
Echoes,  Specimen  Days,  Two 
Rivulets,  The  Wound  Dresser. 

Whittier,  2,  16,  46,  49. 

Wound  Dresser,  The,  96. 


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